


Angel Radio

by benwisehart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angels, Azazel's Special Children, Case Fic, Demons, Ghosts, Human!Castiel - Freeform, Hunter!Castiel, M/M, On Hiatus - See Beginning Author's Notes, Radio Personality Dean, Sam doesn't show until later, Slow Burn, Witches, angel!dean, demon!Sam, reverse!verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 140,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benwisehart/pseuds/benwisehart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Estranged from his family at nineteen, hunting has been the only outlet for Castiel Novak for the last ten years,  until an encounter with Dean Winchester, host of radio talk show <i>Supernatural</i> with an unforthcoming past, changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lawrence, Kansas

**Author's Note:**

> An update for anyone who happens to stumble upon this little acorn of mine in recent months:
> 
> I am, as of April 2017, still planning on completing this fic, and have no intention of abandoning it even though I'm no longer active in the supernatural fandom. I estimate it will have 8 chapters in total, and I know how I want it to end, I'm just a little bogged down and in a weird headspace, so writing and editing it might take me a little while (It's already been four years, so hopefully I've earned the 'slow burn' tag by now)
> 
> My current plan is to complete it for NaNoWriMo 2017 if I haven't finished it by then, so we'll see how that goes. Thank you so much to any readers who have stuck with me for this long. You all mean the world to me.

“And that’s all you can tell me about what happened?”

Castiel Novak is seated across from Noelle Patrickson, young mother and recent widow, and there’s tension in the room to the point of breaking. Patrickson nods slightly, wiping her eyes with another tissue from the box on the coffee table in between them, and Castiel gives her his most sympathetic smile.

“The police officers are useless,” she says darkly, straightening up. “They keep saying they know what they’re doing, but they’re no closer to finding the person responsible now than they were when Stacy died and they’re keeping the press quiet. I just want people to know what’s going on before it happens again. They should be prepared.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Castiel jots down a few more notes on his pad: _heart missing, relatively clean wound, lunar cycle wrong, same as others_. _Found by wife after picking up child from tennis practice._

He looks the part of a journalist, with his simple black suit and blue tie. A pair of prescriptionless glasses balance on the bridge of his nose and his dark brown hair is combed back; the look is just as vital as his own acting. Interviewing witnesses is a skill it has taken him years to master. It pays off, however; Patrickson has been cooperative. It’s obvious she wants her story to be told, after what happened to her husband and the rest of the victims. She hasn’t commented on the direction his questions have taken, or even asked the name of the firm he belongs to.

He’s grateful; he’s not at all in the mood to be telling more lies than necessary. “I’ll make sure the story gets read, Mrs. Patrickson,” is all he says in the end. “Everyone will know what’s really happening here.”

“What  _is_  really happening here?” Her eyes are wide and there’s a hint of desperation in her voice as Castiel closes his notepad.

Castiel wishes he knew the answer; he’s already spent the whole drive to Lawrence pondering that same question, and he wants to give her  _something_. “I don’t know, Mrs. Patrickson,” he confesses. “I really don’t. A serial killer, maybe; your husband’s death was similar to the other three victims.”

She visibly flinches, and Castiel feels a stirring of guilt; he shouldn’t be speculating around her. Especially when he’s still confident that whoever killed Guy Patrickson wasn’t just some murderer—not when taking all the other facts into account. Noelle has been far more helpful than the rest of the people he’s interviewed, but she is still suffering, and she needs to mourn. “Well,” she murmurs softly, and for a moment Castiel is certain that it’s all she’s going to say. Then, “I won’t keep you any more, then. I should be with Nate.”

Castiel stands, and Patrickson does too.  She reaches her hand towards him, and he shakes it automatically. It feels cold and trembles in his own. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Patrickson.” Castiel picks up his trench coat from where he left it draped over the arm of the coach and shrugs it on. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

She grunts, nodding again as she crosses her arms. “What are you going to say in your article?”

And there it is; the inevitable distrust of the press. Castiel doesn’t blame her; they’ve caused him enough trouble in the past, even though his job—if it can be called a job—depends on them. The guise of a reporter tends to leave people more comfortable than a cop, but less forthcoming when they don't want to sound crazy. He tries to avoid it when possible. “I don’t know,” he repeats, voice low. “I intend to report the facts, whatever they are. I’ll have conducted more research by the time I write it.”

“What newspaper did you say you were with?”

“ _Lawrence Gazette_ ,” he replies, because that sounds believable enough. He hopes it’s a real paper.

Patrickson gives another grunt, and Castiel assumes she is satisfied because she heads in the direction of the front door to see him out. “I’m sorry I wasn’t much help,” she says as she opens it for him. Castiel turns to face her as he leaves. “If there’s any other way I can…help you with your article, you just give me a call.”

“You’ve been more than helpful,” he assures her. “Just leave the article to me; go and be with your son.”

Her only response is to give him another curt nod before hesitating, smiling an empty smile of farewell and closing the door in his face. Castiel doesn’t stick around; he’s already pulling off the glasses and turning towards his car—a white 2004 Nissan Patrol—by the time the lock clicks behind him. He’s had enough time in the last ten years to get used to being around mourning people, and while he still fancies himself as not completely insensitive, his thoughts are immediately moving on to the facts he’s so far gathered.

He opens his notebook again as he slides into the driver’s seat.  _Guy Patrickson: age 43, father of 1 (Nathan Patrickson, age 9), no known enemies (according to wife), killed Monday afternoon in own home (no signs of forced entry), police found no trace of the murderer, heart missing, relatively clean wound, lunar cycle wrong, same as others_. _Found by wife after picking up child from tennis practice._

Guy is the third victim in a series of four, lasting over two months. A glance over the notes from his researching the others killed tells the same story; found dead in their houses some time between three and five with their hearts missing. Castiel would suspect a werewolf if it weren’t for the fact that all four of them had been dead by the time their hearts were cut out—cut out, using a knife, albeit not a very clean cut since the autopsy reports show it had taken several deep stabs from a medium-length blade just to get at the organs. The cause of death is always a cut to the throat, and the victim was usually found lying in his or her own blood, bleeding out from that wound. Consequentially, the hearts were not beating when they were finally removed, accounting for the lack of blood at the stab site. A cleaner removal might have suggested the organ theft has a medical purpose, but there is nothing on any of the victims to suggest the thief needs their hearts in workable condition.

One thing is clear, though; whoever is taking the hearts has an affinity for parents. Each of the people killed had at least one school aged child—and all of those children are attending the same school. Sometimes in different grades, taking different classes, but the murders invariably occur when one of the parents is collecting that child from an after-school activity, leaving the other home alone and vulnerable.

The connection is obvious—the police have picked up on it as well—but the murderer’s identity is still proving evasive. If it’s a staff member from the school, they’re doing an excellent job at keeping themself hidden. Much as Castiel hates to admit it, he’s stuck.

He gets out his mobile phone before he pulls away from the Patricksons’ house, selecting a number from his contacts and leaving it on his dashboard with the speaker on. A gruff voice picks up as he turns onto the next road.

“What do you want?”

Castiel smiles to himself. “Hey, Bobby, it’s Cas here.”

“I know that.” There’s a hint of affection behind the gruffness in Bobby Singer’s voice, and Castiel can’t help but laugh to himself. Bobby is an irritable old drunk, but he’s the glue that holds the hunter community together. They’d all be lost without him, and he knows it. “And I know you, this ain’t no social call. What do you want?”

He cuts to the chase; Bobby hates it when people dawdle. “I’m working a case in Lawrence, Kansas,” he explains. “I’ve got four vics with their hearts missing over the last two months. I’d say werewolf but the cause of death is always getting the neck slit and the killer always uses a knife, not to mention none of them happened during the full moon. Any ideas before I hit the books?”

There’s a pause, and Castiel imagines Bobby sitting back away from his desk while he considers the information. “Skinwalkers have got a taste for human hearts as well,” he says. “But they’re usually more of the fangs and claws type when it comes to killing. Did you consider the possibility it might just be a serial killer?”

Castiel chuckles darkly at the ‘just’. “Yeah, and there’s still a chance. But something feels off about this. All the people have kids that go to the same school, and die when those kids are staying back after it finishes. Whoever it is, it’s someone at the school with access to student records. The connection’s too obvious; most serial killers are more careful. This is sloppy.”

Bobby gives an exasperated sigh. “Alright, genius, I’ll do some poking around, if the rest of you kids are willing to give me five minutes’ peace. Did you say your case was in Lawrence?”

Castiel frowns, distracted by the question before he has a chance to say thank you. “Yeah, why? You got another one for when I’m done?”

“Hardly. Actually, this is more of a…mutual favour, for most of us hunters. You know about  _Supernatural_?”

“Bobby, I’m a hunter, it’s reasonable to assume—”

“Not  _the_  supernatural, you idjit.” He sounds irritated. “ _Supernatural_. Radio talk show, airs daily between three and five p.m. in Lawrence, Kansas. Run by some ‘Dean Winchester’ guy; ever heard of him?”

Castiel checks the time. It’s almost four. He turns the name over in his head. “No. Should I?”

There’s a sigh at the other end of the line. “You’re gonna wish you hadn’t. This idjit is a right pain in the ass. He knows about what we do. Hell, he seems to know anything and everything about what we do. Probably would’ve made a decent hunter in another life.”

Judging by the beginning of the conversation, Castiel has a feeling he won’t like where this is going. “So why is he a pain in the ass?”

“Because he broadcasts it to the rest of the world on live radio. He’s even got a website and a podcast now so he’s a nationwide phenomenon amongst folks who care.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I’m doing no such thing. He finds cases, alright, but he doesn’t solve them, just tells folks about them to get famous. He also gives away information about whatever monsters you can dream of, and does a little Q and A section where listeners can call in to share their stories. And that’s all well and good, except there are people who actually reckon he ain’t a stark raving loony. Basically, he’s made it his mission to tell as many people as he can the truth about what’s really out there for the sake of being a famous radio personality. I don’t need to tell you why that’s a bad idea; hunters have been trying to shut him down for years.”

“Why have I never heard of him?”

“’Cause you work cases from under a damn rock.”

Castiel scowls. “Alright, give me the frequency and I’ll check him out. I take it you want me to pay him a visit, since I’m in the neighbourhood.”

“98.5 FM,” Bobby says. “I was gonna call Garth to do it since he’s working a case an hour out, but I gotta admit I’d rather take my chances with you.”

Castiel grunts in agreement as he adjusts the dial. Garth is a nice guy, but he can be too nice. He’s not at all scary. On the other hand, Castiel is almost six feet tall and deceptively solid. He's been in the business for less time than some but he has a reputation amongst other hunters for being intimidating when he needs to be as well as a damn good hunter, and he earned it. If this 'Dean' needs some...extra persuasion, Castiel can provide it.  

He switches the radio on. A few seconds of static pass, and then a voice that sounds like it’s arguing. 

“… _look, you son of a bitch, if you’ve got a problem with me and my show, you can say it however much you want. You don’t believe in this stuff, it’s your own damn business. But don’t you dare tell me that people don’t have a right to know what’s out there. You don’t get to decide that._ ”

Castiel comes to a stoplight. He’s currently driving back to his motel, and it’s not far to go, but his attention is focused on the radio as another voice crackles through the car.

“ _You preach this stuff like it’s gospel, but on what grounds? How come you never give out photographic evidence of the monsters you claim to have seen? You’ve got enough_ stories _to remember to bring a camera at least once._ ”

“ _If getting pictures was easy, everyone would have one and I wouldn’t have to tell them._ ” The voice, Dean’s voice, is more collected now after his initial outburst, but Castiel can hear the impatience of a man who’s sick of having this discussion. “ _By the time a vampire shows its fangs you’ve got more to worry about than snapping a photograph, and there’s plenty of content there on my website, if you can actually bother to look._ ”

“ _That blurry CGI crap? Get real. Even if your monsters and ghosts were genuine, and I don’t believe for a minute that they are, what makes you think making them common knowledge would be a good idea? It’d cause a panic. People wouldn’t feel safe in their homes._ ”

“ _People_ aren’t _safe in their homes. Ignorance won’t protect them. You’ve said your spiel, thanks for calling. Up next–_ ”

Castiel turns off the radio before Dean can take another call or whatever else he has planned. He’s heard enough.

“You ain’t heard enough,” Bobby says, still waiting on the other end of the phone line. “That’s just a non-believer; he gets a call from one of those every day or so. You need to stick around and hear the callers who do believe—they all love tellin’ him their stories. And sure, half of ‘em are made up crap for the sake of being on the radio, but the rest of ‘em sound legit.”

“The man’s an idiot,” Castiel mutters darkly as he pulls into his motel parking lot and cuts the engine. He sits back in his seat. “The caller has a point; people don’t need the truth, they need security. Hunters have it bad enough dealing with what they know, there’s no need to lump that on–”

“Hey, no need to go about convincing me, I already get it,” Bobby says gruffly. “Anyway, there’s nearly an hour left of broadcasting time so you’d better tune in when I’m gone to get a better idea of what he’s like before you go and meet him.”

“And where do I go to go that, exactly?” Castiel grabs his notebook and phone and gets out of the car, locking it before making his way towards the room he’s using. “On that note, why is his show still running? You’d think another hunter would’ve convinced him to shut it down already, if he’s had time to get popular.”

“That’s where it’s been difficult; the guy’s a frigging wraith, no pun intended. The show’s on an independent radio station and whatever he’s done, he’s made it impossible to track the source of the broadcast. Not only that, but ‘Dean Winchester’, as we know him, doesn’t exist; there’s no birth certificate, registered address, nothing. It’s a pseudonym.”

“Of course it is.” Castiel closes the door behind him. “So, what? You want me to track down a guy with no name in a city of over eighty thousand people?”

“I would, but Ash already beat you to it. Dean’s good, but he’s better. He got us an address; it’s a share house in the middle of town. Pretty inconspicuous; registered to five different people, but the most promising one is a ‘Dean Smith’.”

“Classy.” Castiel sits down on the side of the bed, shifting uncomfortably. He’s already spent one night in it and woken with no desire to repeat the process. “Alright, I’ll hop in and say hello when I finish this case, see if I can’t change his mind.”

Bobby reads off the address, and Castiel writes it down. “Don’t kill the guy, he’s an idjit but he’s only human. Anything else, I don’t wanna hear about.”

Castiel smiles wryly. “I don’t kill people. But I’ll get my point across. Thanks, Bobby.”

His only response is a grunt of farewell, and a brief ‘good luck’ before he hangs up, and Castiel is left alone in his motel room with a stack of newspaper clippings on the table and the narrowed eyes he usually reserves only for children and politicians. He picks up the digital clock beside the bed and frowns at it for a moment.

His first priority is still the case he’s working; Nathan and the other children have all lost a parent because of this monster, whoever or whatever it may be, and Castiel intends to put a stop to the killings before anyone else has to suffer the same fate.

Even so, he has to admit that Bobby has a point; Dean Winchester may be convinced that he’s doing the right thing, but he clearly doesn’t understand people the way he should. Castiel knows all too well the way they react to the truth, and it isn’t with calm collectiveness. It’s by lashing out, by pushing it away and shrinking back into a shell of ignorance and security. Some of the people who listen to Dean might think of him as a joke, but if one person believes him and gets themselves killed by looking for vampires without proper training, it’s one person too many. With that in mind, Castiel adjusts the tuning on the alarm clock’s radio and turns it on. It takes a moment before the now-familiar voice meets his ears.

“ _Well, Mr. Wilkins, I’m glad I could help you clear that up. Thanks for calling._ ”

The next voice is a different man. “ _Thank you for your time; I’ll definitely sleep better tonight knowing that there’s no ghost in my house._ ”

“ _It’s my pleasure—and make sure you get that circuit checked to fix up the lighting problem._ ” Dean sounds bored, and in spite of his own disapproval, Castiel can’t blame him; he’s had enough false-alarm cases to sympathise, at least in part. He places the radio beside the bed again and stands to get himself a beer from the kitchenette, sitting down beside the newspapers on the table and facing the radio to continue listening.

“ _Up next we’ve got another caller, and that’ll be the last one for today—anything else you guys still want to share, the inbox on my blog is always open to your stories about the things that go bump in the night. This is Dean Winchester, and you’re listening to_ Supernatural.”

The scowl on Castiel’s face deepens. He’s already decided that he doesn’t like this man. He’s too self-righteous, too…casual about what he does. Cas can’t even place exactly what it is. He pictures Dean Smith, sitting in a locked room in his share house. Probably nearing his fifties, losing his hair and trying to make a name for himself using what he knows about monsters to make up for the fact that he can’t get it up anymore. It’s an outrageous assumption to make, of course; he’s been listening for a total of five minutes. But it’s the one his mind jumps too, and he rolls with it.

He’s surprised when he hears the next voice; it’s a young boy, probably no older than nine or ten and yet to be roughened by the onset of puberty. He sounds nervous. “ _Hello?_ ”

If Dean is astonished by the apparent youth of his next caller, he doesn’t make it clear. But there’s a sudden lightness in his tone, as though he’s just broken into a smile. “ _Hey there, buddy. What’s your name?”_

“ _Nate_.” Castiel perks up instantly.

“ _Hi, Nate, I’m Dean_.” All the harshness from Dean’s earlier conversation is gone; there’s only friendliness there now. “ _What’s up?_ ”

Nate’s connection must be faulty, because there’s a lot of static to be heard when he inhales. “ _I think a werewolf killed my daddy_.”

And that’s enough to make Castiel lean forward in his seat. The radio now has his undivided attention—undivided, except that he’s looking over his notes from the case again. There it is:  _Guy Patrickson: age 43, father of 1 (Nathan Patrickson, age 9)_.

Dean isn’t completely unaffected by this declaration; that a young boy would be willing to make such a statement on live radio, whatever his thoughts, is a bold move in itself. “ _A werewolf killed your dad? When?”_

Castiel wants to tell Dean to shut up; in front of the rest of Lawrence is absolutely no place to ask a child that kind of question—especially considering that Guy’s death was less than two weeks prior. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Castiel remembers that he’s already ruled out werewolves as a suspect—does Nate know something his mother doesn’t? Or just the speculations of a child who listens to a talk show about monsters?

Either way, Nate launches off into a jumble of words without hesitation. “ _Two weeks ago, Daddy was at home cooking dinner while Mommy picked me up from tennis._ ” He drops his voice, and it sounds like he’s about to burst into tears. “ _It was my Math teacher_ ,” he chokes out, and he’s suddenly crying. “ _My Math teacher is a werewolf. She killed him, Mister Winchester. I know she did.”_

Castiel stands up again, unopened beer bottle still in his hands, which he promptly puts down in order to change out of his less than confortable suit. He knows how this must sound to the untrained ear; a little boy with a scary teacher, confused and afraid after losing his father and blaming that loss on the thing he’s most afraid of. It’s obvious, except it’s not, and Castiel already knows that the killer is a staff member.

To Dean’s credit, he doesn’t take the boy’s story as a joke. If anything, he sounds more interested, and his voice is gentle, soothing. It’s almost possible to forget that this is being broadcast to the rest of Lawrence. “ _Hey, hey, it’s okay, Nate, I promise. What makes you say your teacher is a werewolf?_ ”

Nate sniffles. “ _Mommy didn’t believe me when I told her_ ,” he says, ignoring Dean’s question. “ _And the police wouldn’t talk to me because they didn’t believe me either. Do you believe me?”_

“ _Of course I do_.” Dean shocks Castiel with his sincerity. There’s no mockery in his tone, which is clearly all the boy has been hearing from everyone he has tried to speak to. “ _You sound like a smart kid, Nate. You wouldn’t make up something like this_.”

“ _She’s always away from school during the full moon. I– I know you say that they don’t change during the day, but could that– could it mean something?_ ”

“ _Yeah, of course; if she’s out all night she’s bound to want some off-time during the day. Why do you think she killed your dad?_ ”

Nate’s voice cracks again. “ _She knows I have tennis on Mondays,_ ” he whispers. “ _So when Mommy came and got me she knew there’d be no-one else at the house…_ ”

“ _I’m so sorry, Nate,_ ” Dean says gently. “ _Two weeks ago wasn’t a full moon, though, was it?_ ”

“ _I—I know that._ ” Nate takes a deep breath. “ _But it was her, I know it. She didn’t have to use her teeth. She– she wants– she gets people’s hearts while she’s still human and eats them when she changes, so people who know about werewolves don’t see the pattern._ ”

Castiel frowns, the possibility not even having occurred to him. It made sense, in a sketchy kind of way. Nathan is clever—Castiel is beginning to regret not talking to him, or to any of the other children. Whether he is right about his teacher or not is still unknown, but maybe Castiel was too quick to rule a werewolf out as the suspect. It’s worth looking into.

“ _You saw the pattern, though, huh?_ ” Dean says, sounding impressed. “ _That’s pretty awesome. I reckon your daddy would’ve been real proud of you, Nate_.”

“ _Thank you, Mister Winchester._ ” Despite everything, Nate sounds pleased at Dean’s praise. “ _What should I do?_ ”

“ _You should take care of yourself and your mom,_ ” Dean replies. “ _And don’t try to go after the werewolf yourself, okay?”_

“ _I won’t_ ,” Nate murmurs, in a tone that sounds scared enough to be sincere. His voice suddenly drops. “ _I have to go_ , _Mommy is coming_.”

Castiel is certain that anyone else listening to this radio would have laughed at that, but his own chest tightens in pity. He’s never been a lover of children, but he’s seen enough fear to hate seeing it in anybody.

Dean doesn’t laugh either. “ _You go, then. Thanks so much for calling, Nate. Good luck._ ”

“ _Bye bye_.” Click.

And then Dean carries on like nothing happened, like Castiel isn’t grabbing his car keys while still zipping up his jeans and pulling a grey button up shirt on over his chest. He was planning to spend the rest of today going over his case notes and surfing the internet for more possibilities, but right now he has a different course of action in mind. Maybe he’ll bring his and Dean’s introduction forward after all.

“ _And that's all of our callers for today,_ ” Dean is saying. “ _Up next, in continuation of this month’s pagan god theme–”_

Castiel turns off the radio and throws it onto the bed as he walks back to the door, stopping briefly to pull on his sneakers before locking up and sliding back into the driver’s seat. Despite Bobby’s recommendation, he’s listened to all he wants to hear of  _Supernatural_. His initial opinion of Dean himself has shifted after hearing him talk to Nathan, but his stance still remains; he’s irresponsible. It was irresponsible to let that boy tell his story on the show; he clearly looks up to Dean, but what if the teacher herself was listening? What if Nate is right about her? Any monster living in Lawrence will probably have heard about Dean’s show; Nate just announced his suspicions to the whole city, and the werewolf—if it is a werewolf—knowing that he’s catching on can’t ever end well.

It takes a while to locate the address Bobby gave him on the street map Castiel picked up when he reached the town, and a longer while to figure out the route to take. Castiel has been meaning to invest in a smartphone for months, but for the time being he is still using his aging Nokia 8800, known for its hardiness and its lack of Google Maps.

Halfway through the journey, he gives in and turns on the radio again, too curious to avoid the station on principle. However, there’s nothing more that pertains to his case. Dean goes on for a further twenty minutes about a group of deities worshipped by a little-known religious cult in medieval Europe who were supposedly wiped out by those same deities when they failed to make a satisfactory sacrifice one year. According to lore, the pagan gods, said to be brothers and sisters, had stayed together for another fifty years devouring hapless villagers before disappearing in the early thirteenth century and were never heard from since. It’s actually interesting; Dean has a way with words that Castiel has lacked his whole life, and Cas finds himself getting absorbed in the tale. At the very least he can see how the show might appeal to a casual listener; it’s not all vampire stories and talks of why you should believe in ghosts. There’s an educational aspect to it that would interest even a non-believer if they were simply keen on monster lore.

It doesn’t change anything, of course. Dean needs to be shut down for the greater good, medieval pagan gods be damned.

The street itself isn’t hard to find; as Bobby said, it’s a house right in the middle of town, but it isn’t obvious from a first glance that someone is running an independent radio station from inside it. In fact, it’s an ugly home; the paint is peeling, and the tiny garden is composed entirely of weeds. It definitely looks like cheap accommodation—the type that students opt for when no other option is available. Considering the fact that five housemates live together in it, it’s reasonable to assume that none of those residents are living in their dream home.

Castiel grabs his leather jacket from the back seat and pulls it on quickly as he gets out of the car. He also retrieves the Glock 22 he keeps in the compartment under the seat—he doesn’t intend to use it, or even make its presence known, but he is a hunter and he prefers to be armed, especially around other hunters—and whoever else he may be, it’s obvious that Dean knows his stuff.

He approaches the red wooden door—paint peeling, like the rest of the house—and knocks on it. A few moments of thumping footsteps later, a man who looks to be in his early twenties answers it, peering out at him dubiously.

“Hi.”

“Hello.”

“Can I help you?”

After ascertaining that his voice is different from Dean’s, Castiel puts on a smile. “Um, yeah,” he says, laughing awkwardly. “Sorry, I’m not sure if this is the right house, but I’m looking for a friend of mine—Dean Smith. I’m told he lives here.”

He looks taken aback, and for a second Castiel thinks Ash found the wrong address. “Dean?” he asks incredulously, looking over his shoulder as he steps back from the door, beckoning him inside with a shrug. “Uh, yeah, he’s here. Didn’t say he was expecting visitors.”

Castiel accepts the invitation, looking around. In spite of the external state of disrepair, the inside of the house is clean to a point of sterility. It’s a strange contrast.

“I didn’t think Dean had friends,” the man says after a moment. “You got a name?”

“Emmanuel,” he replies automatically, although there’s no real need for an alias here. “Emmanuel Allen.” It’s the name he used at the motel and the one he gave the witnesses.

“Yeah, never heard of you,” he says in a tone that suggests he wasn't expecting to have heard of him. “Well, his room is up in the attic and he literally never leaves it, so knock yourself out.” He pauses, and Castiel’s eyes narrow slightly. It’s unusual to be welcomed inside so easily, particularly in a state like Kansas, but he doesn’t push it.

“Look, if you’re from some kind of government agency I swear to god, I don’t know anything,” the man blurts out suddenly, and Castiel fixes him with a frown, not understanding. He carries on in a rush. “None of us do. If that guy is in trouble it’s nothing to do with me, he just shares the rent and we–”

“Hold on a second,” Castiel interjects. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m a journalist.”

If anything, this serves to reassure him even less than the prospect of a federal agent. Castiel sighs and adds, “I’m just a friend looking to catch up. I was passing through town and I figured I’d find him to say hello.”

The man relaxes. Slightly. “Right, sorry. Look, no offense, but your friend is kind of…” He’s struggling for words. His voice drops. “Well, the rest of us have bets on whether he’s an escaped convict or an undercover Russian spy. He never leaves that room of his. Well, except when nobody else is around, presumably. I mean, literally, never, not once. None of us have had a conversation with him since we each moved in. We wouldn’t even know he’s there if it wasn’t for the light going on and off and his share of the rent getting paid each month. He’s like a…friendly ghost. Bit nerve-wracking living under the same roof, to be honest.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. He appears to have found the right house, although this man’s story is a surprising one. It’s reasonable to assume that Dean leaves when his housemates are sleeping or out, but regardless, it’s not entirely without suspicion. “Well, that’s Dean for you,” he says, chuckling as he pats the stranger on his shoulder awkwardly. “That’s Dean through and through. Bit of a paranoid conspiracy theorist. Does all his work from home.”

“Sounds about right. His door’s locked all the time and he doesn’t usually respond to knocking, so good luck getting his attention.”

“I’ll manage.” Castiel follows him to a flight of stairs, and looks up it at the closed door. His guide has stopped walking, casting an expectant glance in Castiel’s direction. “Up here?”

“Yeah.” He backs up, still eyeing Castiel warily. “I’m serious, dude, I don’t want any trouble; I’m just a student.”

“Uh, it’s fine.” Castiel tries to ignore the irony in that this very man just invited a stranger—one with a concealed gun, no less—into his house on the claim that he is a friend of the recluse who lives in his attic. Hardly a clever move, but perhaps he’s used to uncertainty when it comes to Dean. He hasn’t made any comment about  _Supernatural_. Is it possible he doesn’t even know about the broadcasts Ash traced to this very house? It seems unlikely, but then, maybe there’s been some terrible mix-up. “Nothing could be further from my thoughts.”

With that, he ascends the stairs, and the man stays at the bottom, arms crossed. Ignoring him, Castiel bangs the door with his fist. “Dean, this is, uh, Emmanuel. Open up.”

Nothing. Castiel isn’t at all surprised. He checks his watch, and finds that it’s five thirty; an hour and a half since he first called Bobby. It seems unusual that so much time could have passed. It means, however, that assuming he has somehow soundproofed the place, which would at least account for his housemates’ apparent obliviousness, Dean must have already finished. He presses his ear to the wood, brow furrowed. There’s no sound to be heard. He knocks again.

“Dean, come on, buddy.” He looks over his shoulder at the man who let him in—he realises he never got his name—and shrugs. It’s difficult to keep up the long-lost-friend story with him staring up at him doubtfully, and Castiel is fast losing his patience. With both of them. He opts for plan B.

“Dean Winchester, this is the FBI,” he yells, pulling out his Glock. There’s a yelp from behind him, a scuttling of feet and a cry of, ‘oh my god, I fucking knew it’, and then Castiel is alone. “Come out with your hands up. I’m giving you one last chance to open this door before I use force.”

Still nothing. Castiel is starting to suspect that the attic is empty, so he steps back. It’s going to be difficult to kick it in when he’s on a stairway, but he’s dealt with far worse.

The door is suddenly open.

Castiel has long since abandoned his original image of Dean, but he still isn’t altogether certain what he is expecting to see. What he isn’t expecting to see, however, is what he gets. It’s hard to describe his first impression of Dean Winchester; there’s nothing to which he can compare.

He’s tall, even taller than Castiel, with tanned skin, hair of a light brown or dirty blond, and intense green eyes stare outward from the centre of a face dusted with light freckles and stubble. It’s the face that’s most commonly seen on magazine covers and modelling for name-brand clothing companies, but there is nothing common about it. Not in the shape of his nose or the curve of his lips, not in the expression he fixes Castiel with that has no named emotion to characterise it. It’s a face that inspires awe in the most unshakable.

For a full second, both men stare at each other, just stare. It’s Castiel who moves first, raising his gun while Dean raises his hands with a nervous laugh. “Whoa, take it easy, pal.”

Castiel’s hands don’t waver. “Dean Winchester?” he asks, even though there’s no real doubt as to who this is; he recognises the voice, and peering past him, he can see the shape of what looks like a full-size soundproof booth, mixing board visible through a glass window. Bobby is right; this is the place.

“I’m gonna assume you’re not just a really passionate fan.” Dean raises his eyebrows at Castiel and steps back, spreading his arms in invitation. Giving the attic a once over, Castiel enters, lowering the weapon but not letting go. “So they’ve finally found me, huh?” he asks, eyebrows arching. Castiel’s eyes turn on him again.

“I’m not FBI.”

“And I’m not an idiot, of course you’re not FBI. You’re a hunter.”

“You know about hunters.”

Dean’s entire demeanour is unimpressed. “Not the brightest one I’ve met,” he says, shaking his head. “Yeah, I know about hunters. Who do you think I am?”

Castiel takes a step closer to Dean, and Dean doesn’t move. “Then we’ll skip the peripherals. You know why I’m here.”

“I really don’t.” Dean’s arms drop to his sides. “But my money’s not on Girl Scout cookies.”

“You have to cancel your show.”

“Ah, no, I don’t. I’m an independent radio station and I’m not breaking the law.”

“I don’t represent the law.”

“You don’t scare me.” The humour is gone from Dean’s voice. He may not be used to visitors but he’s had enough calls from hunters to know how they feel about him. Castiel places the gun inside his jacket again and holds up his hands. Dean doesn’t look the least bit convinced, but he doesn’t move when Castiel steps towards him again. Before Dean has time to react, Castiel has grabbed him by the front of his leather jacket and spun him around so that his back is pressed roughly against the wall beside the door. Castiel is unprepared for the lack of resistance he gets; it’s almost too easy.

“I should,” he growls, and he can feel the puffs of Dean’s breath against his face.

Dean’s face breaks into a grin. “Nah, hunters kill monsters; I’m no monster, and I’d like to see you try and hurt me. You’ll be dead before you start.”

“I’m the one with the gun, Dean,” Castiel says.

“I can still kick your ass.” There’s no hesitation in Dean’s voice, in spite of Castiel’s headlock. If anything, he seems to revel in it. “Look, man, can we lose the power crap? You win, fun’s over, let’s talk.” Dean raises his eyebrows at him.

His eyes still narrowed, Castiel lets Dean go, stepping away. He’s not really sure why he reacted the way he did. It made an impression, if nothing else, although he’s still figuring out what that impression might be. He doesn’t go to withdraw his gun again; he simply crosses his arms while Dean turns and shuts the door, rotating the key in its lock. At this, Castiel does go for his gun again. Dean laughs.

“Put that away. Unlike you, I ain’t some glorified woodsman with a gun. I’m just a radio host.” He holds up his hands once more, and Castiel shrugs, crossing his arms again. Dean doesn’t scare him; he’s been locked in a room with far worse.

“You’re name’s not Emmanuel,” Dean says, walking back around to the sound booth and stopping in front of the door. He turns to look at him. “Is it?”

“Castiel,” he replies. “Novak.”

Dean looks interested. “Novak meaning ‘newcomer’; Castiel, meaning shield of God. Angel of Thursday, right?”

“Something like that.” It’s as if Castiel suddenly remembers that he already dislikes this man; now he’s just showing off. “My mother always says she just liked the sound of it.”

Having gotten over their initial tension—to a point—Castiel takes the opportunity to look over the attic properly. The sound booth, evidently where Dean does his recordings from to avoid causing noise for his housemates, is located in the centre where the roof of the house tapers, making it the ceiling’s highest point. There’s a single mattress and bedding on the floor to one side, and it is made neatly as though it’s never been slept in. Other than that, the only thing of interest is the giant stack of books in the corner, next to a number of large cardboard boxes. The attic is just as immaculately clean as the rest of the house; there’s not a speck of dust anywhere. It’s unnerving.

“I’m Dean Winchester.” Dean doesn’t offer a hand for shaking, and neither does Castiel. “Nice to meet you, Cas.”

“Hm.” Castiel doesn’t have a better response than that—although he thinks that perhaps he should. If he’s honest, he doesn’t want a fight any more than Dean does, but that doesn’t mean he wants to be on a nickname basis with the man. Dean carries on before Castiel has a chance to say more.

“Beer?” he asks, gesturing to a small fridge beside the bed that Castiel didn’t notice before. Castiel looks him over suspiciously but nods as Dean walks over to it.

“Thanks.”

Dean tosses him a can and pops one open himself, taking a gulp as he moves to stand in front of him again, leaving a wider space between them.

Contrary to what Castiel had first imagined, Dean isn’t going to respond to brute force. He’s already abandoned that tactic. “I’m working the werewolf case,” he begins, opening the beer can. It doesn’t appear to be tampered with, but he doesn’t drink from it just yet. He’s still trying to analyse Dean.

“Werewolf case?”

“Supposed werewolf case.” Castiel pauses, waiting for Dean to catch on. “Nathan. He called you ninety minutes ago.”

Dean suddenly nods, pointing one finger at him while he raises the beer to his lips again. “Yeah, the little boy. I remember him. So he’s legit, huh?”

“You thought he was lying?” That’s surprising; Dean sounded convinced enough. Hell, he’d sounded so sympathetic.

Dean shrugs. “Not so much, but enough kids listen to me to get jealous and want stories of their own. Wouldn’t surprise me if some of them made one up.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“You haven’t been a listener for long, have you?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, and Dean takes it as an invitation to carry on. “I’m not here to judge people’s honesty or solve their problems, Cas. I’m here to talk, that’s all. I’m not like you."

“Why?” It’s hard to keep the irritation from creeping into his voice. “You must know what you’re doing is wrong. Society as a whole isn’t ready for the truth.”

“Society wouldn’t know the truth if you waved it under their noses,” Dean says, shaking his head and stopping to drink from his can again. Castiel crosses his arms while he waits. “And that’s the whole problem; humans are wonderful, but they’re dumb. They’ll deny and deny ‘til Hell freezes over if it makes ‘em feel better. My job is to tell those who want to listen.”

“If you–”

“Save it.” Dean looks at him sharply. “I know what your lot says about me, Cas, but it’s not as bad as you seem convinced it is; the only people who actually believe the monster facts I tell them are teenage girls obsessed with vampire romance and conspiracy theorists who live in their moms’ basements. Don’t you watch  _Ghostfacers_? Totally legit, but folks watch it for half an hour of spooks and fun, and as soon as the T.V. goes off it stops being real. I’m the same.”

Castiel calmly takes a breath. “That little boy? His name is Nathan Patrickson, he’s an only child and he plays tennis. And  _he_  believes in you, to the point where he was willing to call you up on live radio just to tell you what he thinks about how his father died. What if he’s right?” He matches Dean’s stare with equal vehemence. “Just hypothetically. What if, for the sake of argument, Nate’s teacher is a werewolf, he’s right about her killing his father, and she tunes into the radio to hear him say that? She’d want him out of the way, believe me.”

“She’d know he’s a kid; nobody’ll listen to him.”

“What if he wasn’t? Don’t tell me an adult’s never called you up about a similar thing.”

“You think I’m putting people in danger,” Dean says, and Castiel gets the distinct impression that he is the only one arguing here. “But what are you doing? Do you seriously think these people are better off without knowing what’s out there? What gives you the right to know how to protect yourself but not them?”

“Dean,” Castiel says, the name turning into a growl upon his lips, “I wish I’d never found out about the damn things. That knowledge was what led me here.” He gestures around the room. “To hunting, crappy food, beds carved from solid rock. You can’t just go back from that. How could you want to dump it on every man, woman and child? Sure, maybe they don’t all become hunters, but they have to go to bed each night–”

“You’re a freaking child, you know that?” There’s outright anger in Dean’s voice, and for the first time since entering this house, Castiel feels a chill of fear. “Can’t you hear yourself? ‘Kids need to know the monster in the closet ain’t real so they can sleep better’, I’ve heard it all before. I hear it from the self-righteous assholes like you who call in every day thinking they know what’s best for humanity. Well, get off of your high horse, you’re not that special.”

Castiel takes a step back, his hand gripping the untouched beer, but he stands his ground. He hasn’t forgotten his reason for coming—Dean just doesn’t understand. “I know what I’m doing, Dean,” he says. “And if you had worked a single case in your life you would get it. You haven’t, have you?”

Dean shoots him a glare. “I don’t need to–”

“Yeah, you do. Don’t you tell me you don’t.” Castiel stands a little taller, bringing himself eye to eye with Dean, and when had the two of them moved to stand so close? “You heard Nate’s story about the fact that there’s potentially a  _werewolf_  teaching in a fucking grade school, killing the parents of its students, and an hour and a half later you’ve forgotten it. If you want to protect people, you deal with the monsters yourself, so that  _they_  don’t have to. Not by telling them about it and sitting back to watch.”

“I’ve got my own job to do.”

“No, you don’t.” Castiel begins to wonder why he even bothered coming. It’s clear that Dean isn’t going to listen.

“I do.” Dean grabs the front of Castiel’s jacket before thinking better of it and letting go. “And you’re not going to stop me, Cas.”

For a fraction of a second, Castiel senses hesitation in Dean’s movements—but it doesn’t come from any kind of sway Castiel holds over him. He’d be a fool to think he’s any closer to convincing Dean to stop broadcasting than he was when he arrived. But there’s  _something_  there, like Dean is angry over a different matter entirely. He swallows.

“I can see this is pointless,” he says, glancing around the attic. “You don’t care about these people, you just want to tuck yourself into bed each night and think you’ve done a good deed without having to do the work.”

Dean’s eyes follow Castiel’s to the broadcast board, visible through the window of the booth, and he sighs.

When he next speaks, he sounds tired. Very tired. It’s a contrast to before, and it’s off-throwing. “Some people don’t need to feel secure, or to be told that it’s going to be okay,” he says softly. “Sometimes they just want one person to tell them that they’re not crazy.”

Castiel is taken aback by this. Dean places his hand upon the door of the booth without turning to look at Castiel. “People like Nate, they’re reaching out. They’ve got the police and hunters trying to keep them safe. They’ve got friends, and family, to help them through the pain. But when they  _know_ , deep down, that something is wrong, they need somebody who’ll listen. Without judging.”

He finally faces the hunter again, his expression solemn, and even though this is an emotional guilt-trip, Castiel is forced to wonder why it’s working. “We’ve made it clear we don’t like each other’s job,” Dean says, glancing down at the beer can in his hand as though he’d forgotten he’s holding it. “But at least I can see why yours is important, past the flaws that come along with it. Pay me the same respect.”

Castiel falters.

He does. He can see Dean’s perspective—he can understand it even better, with his own past in mind. But even now, he can’t let go. Dean is right about Castiel’s job; he protects people. But Dean is putting people like Nate in danger every time they call him up. Castiel can’t allow him to continue—he can’t.

“It doesn’t change anything,” he says at last, straightening up to meet Dean’s eyes, blue boring into green. “I came here to make you understand, but you’re not going to consider it.”

Dean grabs him by the shoulder as he tries to turn away. It’s a light touch, more of a question than a restraint. Castiel looks at him again. “You’re the one not considering it,” he says sharply. “I’m not going to logic you about this, but if you think you can just waltz into my house and shut me down, think again. Nobody  _makes_  me do anything.”

“I can see that.” Castiel has already figured as much for himself. “I can’t change your mind. And look, I get it, alright? This isn’t black or white.” He brushes Dean’s hand away, eyes narrowing. “But it has to stop, because it’s better for people to be unhappy than dead. It’s  _better_  for kids like Nathan to be told they’re being irrational, because at least they’ve still got a chance to make something of themselves. To find themselves a cause to get up in the morning.” He takes a deliberate step backwards, away from Dean. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Oh, believe me, I get it,” Dean says. “Blah, blah, hunting, right? And don’t you  _dare_ , for one minute, pretend you understand me.”

“I understand enough.” Castiel is angry. But he’s disappointed, too. Dean is not a bad person. He’s even intelligent. He knows enough about monsters to make a brilliant hunter—but he’s putting his talents in the wrong place. “I’m leaving,” he says.

“Yeah, you do that.”

"I'll be back." Castiel doesn’t stick around; he can deal with  _Supernatural_  later but for now he wants out of this attic. He wants out of this whole house. Dean can deal with his housemates, who are now convinced that the stranger in the attic is wanted by the FBI. Turning away from Dean, he strides back to the door through which he came, rotating the key that is still in the lock. It opens with a click.

“Leonie Schulz.”

Castiel stops. Frowning, he looks over his shoulder. Dean hasn’t moved from where he last saw him. “Excuse me?”

“Nate’s math teacher,” Dean says. “Her name, it’s Leonie Schulz, you can check if you like.”

“Oh.”

“Just…” Dean shrugs, and Castiel has a moment of embarrassment. Maybe Dean hasn’t brushed the boy off as completely as he’d thought. “You know, to save you the trouble.”

“Nate didn’t give you his last name.”

“Hacked the police servers and searched their records for whoever got killed two weeks ago. Guy, right?”

Castiel removes his hand from the door handle. “In half an hour? That’s some decent hacking.”

“I’m a decent hacker. The newspapers didn’t publicise his full name so I had to find out myself.”

“That’s a lot of trouble to go to before forgetting the kid’s name,” Castiel says, testing.

“Maybe I just wanted to see what you knew.” It’s a simple, matter-of-fact answer, but it impresses Castiel nonetheless.

“Not bad. You had me going.” Dean’s already told Castiel that he’s not a hunter, but he’s starting to doubt. It’s hard to believe that Dean is anything but. He’s certainly competent enough. He crosses his arms again. “Are you sure you’ve never worked a case before?”

“Now at that part, I wasn’t lying,” Dean says. “I’m not trying to solve anyone’s case. I just wanted to pull facts together.”

Castiel looks at him dubiously. “Anything else you know, then? That might help an actual hunter do his actual job?”

“What happened to hating me?”

“I don’t hate you. You’re not worth the effort, although I’m starting to think you might be; I can at least respect you as an individual.”

Dean grins. “Nobody’s ever said that to me before.”

Castiel’s lip curls. Dean keeps talking.

“I only know what I learned from the police records, which I’m sure you’ve already read.”

“Yes; all the victims whose deaths match the profile–”

“–had kids at the same school,” Dean finishes. “The police already suspect it's a staff member; Nate’s not far off.”

“Exactly.” Castiel checks the time; it’s almost six o’clock. “I was going to do some background research on the staff tonight, but Nate’s at least given me a starting point. If there’s anything off about–” He pauses. “Leonie Schulz, I’ll know about it. Absentee records aren’t enough to shoot someone over.”

“The full moon is three days from now,” Dean points out. “If she is stocking up on hearts for the next cycle, she should have a store of them somewhere in her house."

Castiel nods in agreement. “A fridge, I’d imagine.”

“Yum.” Dean pauses, thoughtful. “Well,  _whoever_  it is, werewolf or not, they’re not being careful enough to avoid leaving a pattern.”

“I thought the same thing,” Castiel says. “Either a novice or a setup to blame someone else, but the latter would have a more obvious culprit.”

“So if it is a werewolf, they probably haven’t been one for long.”

“Which means that they’re not necessarily new to the city or the school staff. The killings started two months ago and that’s probably when she was turned, or not long after.”

Dean and Castiel exchange a look. “What happened to hating me?” Dean repeats, and this time, there’s a real smile on his face.

Castiel really only smiles when he’s putting one on for show—or irony. He’s never been much of a smiler, even when he’s happy. Even if he were, he isn’t sure he would be smiling now. It’s not an exceptionally happy moment, after all. But he is making progress on this case. He doesn’t want to admit it, but Dean is smart, and, for one reason or another, their thoughts are working together. So he doesn’t answer the question. “I’ll do a background search on Schulz,” he says simply. “If anything suspicious comes up—an attack on her in the last three months or so, something like that—I’ll check out her house. See if I can find some more definitive proof.”

Dean raises his eyebrows dubiously. “Awesome. I guess that’s it then.”

Castiel casts a frown in his direction. “Do you have a problem with that?”

There’s a light tap as Dean pats the side of his booth affectionately. Castiel has a fleeting second to wonder how he got it in here before the moment is over. “No, I’m good. You go, knock yourself out. I’ll just be here.” His smile is more of a smirk now. “Or, you know, if you needed an extra pair of hands, I could probably help.”

Ten minutes ago Castiel would have declined this offer on the spot. As it is, it gives him pause. “What happened to never working a case before?”

“What happened to you pulling a gun on me?” Dean counters, still smirking, and Castiel tilts his head a little, eyes narrowed in thinly veiled amusement.

“I’m still going to shut you down.” 

“No, you’re not.” There’s nothing but certainty in Dean’s voice.

“You know about the supernatural,” Castiel states thoughtfully. “You know a lot. But do you have  _any_  hands-on hunting experience? At all?”

Dean shrugs. “I’ve never used a firearm in my life, but I think you’ll find I’m a pretty fast learner. And trust me, I am an  _awesome_  liar.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“You have no idea.”

“You  _should_  come, you know.” Castiel’s face hardens. “I’m not trusting you to watch my back in a fight, but if you can hold your own and you’re not afraid of monsters, you should come. Hunting isn’t something you can describe. It’s something you do and hope to god nobody else has to. It’ll change your mind about the broadcasts.”

“It won’t.” Dean looks over the attic one more time, his expression calculative. “But you deserve a chance.”

Castiel decides not to answer that. “Well, if you’re set on coming, we’re taking my car.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

“We are not taking your car.”

“What’s wrong with my car?”

Dean’s eyes crawl over the hulking mass of four-wheel-drive, and Castiel gets the distinct impression that the man is attempting to disassemble it with his eyes. “It’s a freaking campers’ car, not a hunter’s car. It’s ugly.”

Castiel snorts as he opens Dean’s door and makes his way around to the driver’s side. “You’re not even a hunter. Just get in.”

There’s a moment wherein Dean looks on the verge of protesting, but he quickly shrugs and sits down in the passenger seat, his nose wrinkled in disgust. Castiel tries not to take offense at that; he’s no vehicle enthusiast, but he takes care of his car and it does its job. He doesn’t see where the problem lies. From what he’s seen, Dean doesn’t even own a car.

“Alright, address,” Castiel says, looking over at Dean who is currently staring down at his phone. It’s an iPhone, and Cas has to pretend he’s less envious than he is.

“It’s not far from here,” Dean begins, pointing down the street as he pockets the phone.

“If she’s a werewolf, she probably lives alone, unless it’s with another werewolf,” Castiel points out. “But that’s unlikely.”

“In which case we’d need to talk to them as well.”

Castiel is shocked by the speed at which Dean was able to get a residential address. He had already hacked the school servers to find out Nate’s teachers, but even so, to do both that and the police in the time between finishing his broadcast and Castiel’s arrival half an hour later is…well, surreal.

If nothing else, it erases some of the apprehension Castiel is feeling. He hates teaming up with other hunters on the best of days; he’s always worked better alone. To bring along somebody who has never finished a case in his life is a stress; much as he dislikes Dean he has no desire to get him killed. But Dean has proven himself an unlikely asset so far, and Castiel would be a fool not to accept the help he’s been offered. Especially since, well, there aren’t a lot of people who’ll help a hunter.

The drive goes more or less smoothly. Once talk of the case finishes, they fall into an uncomfortable silence, and Castiel is made aware of the fact that allies or not, they are still strangers who met over a disagreement. And Castiel is still attempting to end Dean’s career.

The little he’s seen of Dean has been enough to show him that the man is not going to just call it quits. What he does is important to him. Castiel feels guilty for trying to take that away, even for the greater good. That’s an unusual emotion, for him; he‘s never had qualms with doing something unpleasant for the greater good. On the contrary, he seems to revel in it.

“It’s at the next corner of this road, on the right.”

Castiel stops the car against the curb. “We’ll walk the rest of the way; I don’t want my car parked directly outside if we can avoid it.”

Dean shrugs and gets out, and Castiel catches him glaring at the car resentfully as he does so. Castiel is about to smile and stops himself.

“We’re just going to investigate,” he says with as much sternness as he can muster, standing next to Dean as he locks the car. “If there’s any fighting that comes up you leave it to me, understand?”

The sheer amount of unimpressed disbelief upon Dean’s face is staggering, but to his credit, his only response is to exhale a little louder than normal. “I understand.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “I’m serious. You’re an amateur, and I’m not going to be responsible for getting you killed, so if  _anything_  goes wrong, you make a break for it.”

“I’ve got it, Cas.” Dean pats his shoulder and starts off in front of him. “Really, man, don’t waste your time worrying about me;  _believe_  me, I can handle anything this lady can throw my way. You said yourself that we don’t even know if Schulz is the one we want.”

“We’re going to trespass on private property.”

“Not exactly the worst thing in my repertoire,” Dean admits with a smirk, and Castiel gives up, falling into step beside him.

“We’ll see.”

When they reach the house, it’s small, but neat, with a well-trimmed hedge in front of it and an occupied one-car shelter to its side. Castiel is grateful for its location; Dean’s house was on a much busier road. Here is more or less quiet.

The curtains are drawn. Understandable; it’s six thirty and starting to get dark. It works in their favour. They halt outside the fence.

Had Schulz been a witness and not a suspect, Castiel would have waited until the following morning to come here. As it is, there’s no need; Castiel has no intention of talking to her. After what she’s potentially heard on the radio, a stranger coming to her house asking questions would definitely be a cause for alarm whether she’s a werewolf or not. No, their only mission here is to watch and look for evidence, and to not alert her to their presence, if at all possible.

They’re probably not in any real danger—if Nate’s theory is correct, and it’s still a long shot, no werewolves will be transforming tonight. He wouldn’t have brought Dean along otherwise. But if it is true that Leonie Schulz is responsible for the murders, then she’s already proven herself to be dangerous at any time of the month.

Dean leans against the short, metal fence, facing away from the house, and jerks his head backwards at the parking space. “Someone home?”

Castiel’s eyes look over the windows. There’s no light visible from behind them, but he’s learned from experience that that doesn’t always mean something. “If she’s a werewolf, her house’ll show it,” he says, opening the gate. “Claw marks, blood on the windows, things like that.”

“If she’s a werewolf she knows about it,” Dean points out in a whisper, following him as they skirt the front of the house and make their way down a narrow path between the side of the house and the fence. Castiel stops to examine a low-lying windowsill. “That’s the whole concept of Nate’s theory; she gets ‘em ready for the big night so she doesn’t even have to leave the house.”

“How’s she doing that without unintentionally running amok?” Castiel murmurs. “Caging herself in with dinner?”

“Or someone else does it for her. What kind of cage can hold a fully transformed werewolf?”

“One made of a silver alloy, presumably.”

Dean nods in agreement as Castiel steps away from the window, shaking his head. They move on to the next one.

“When I first started working this case, I checked the local papers for any recent deaths resembling a classic werewolf attack,” Castiel says, voice low. “There weren’t any—at least not that I could find. So what I don’t get about this theory is, how does she know about what she is? She wouldn’t remember transforming. What happened that first time?”

“What if it’s not a werewolf?”

Castiel sighs, tired. “The only things we have to go on are the days she missed work and the fact that she works at the school, with access to records on extra-curricula activities. It could be anyone and we still don’t have a motive.”

Dean is silent for a long moment while they both ponder this information. “Schulz is still as good a place to start as any,” he says. “Until we have something more to go on. I say we–”

“Who the hell are you?”

Oh.

It’s dark, but Castiel recognises Leonie Schulz from her staff picture—Dean brought it up in the record while they were looking for her address. She is not a tall woman but she is imposing nonetheless; middle-aged with a stern expression and salt and pepper hair pulled into a tight bun. Her entire demeanour speaks authority. There is something wolfish about her features, too; it’s no wonder Nate jumped to the conclusion that he did.

The fact that she just found two strangers staring in through her windows has done little to stave any anger that might have otherwise been absent. She is between them and the front of the house, the road; if they’re going to make a break for it, they’ll have to jump the fence.

Instinctively, he moves in front of Dean. “Relax, ma’am, we’re from the FBI. We’re investigating–”

“Bullshit,” she shoots back, making Castiel halt his speech. “You’re no more FBI than I am. What are you doing in my garden?”

It was worth a shot. “This is…a terrible misunderstanding,” he offers, laughing awkwardly and holding up his hands defencelessly. “I think we’ve made a mistake.”

“Get off my property right now and I won’t press charges.”

“Ah, yes, right away.” He laughs again, still sounding uncomfortable. “If you could just, um, let us pass, that’d be great, we’ll be on our way.” He glances over his shoulder at Dean, and realises with a jolt that he is gone. Had he really run like Cas had said? Somehow, that didn’t seem like him.

At any rate, he doesn’t have time to think about that, because Schulz is beckoning him past her with a murderous expression. Castiel will have to find Dean later; now, he has to get out of here with his junk in tact. He wonders if the woman saw Dean at all.

He looks her over as he passes. She is, of course, entirely justified in being irate—in feeling threatened, certainly. The chance of her being the one they want is relatively low. But there’s no way of ruling her out as a suspect.

Then a knife is hurtling towards his neck and Castiel has exactly one second before his hand comes up automatically and grabs her wrist, suspending the knife an inch away from his face.

He gasps when he feels a pain in his own wrist as she wraps her other arm around and twists him around with unnatural strength, planting his face against the cold brick of the house. Castiel jerks his head to the side just in time to hear the knife bounce off the bricks to his left, nicking his ear. “You’re a hunter,” she hisses.

Castiel doesn’t have time for a thought other than,  _I’ve definitely got the right house_ , before he is reaching upwards with his left hand—the one he didn’t use to block the attack—and fastening it around the hilt of the knife, over Schulz’s fingers. He pulls it downwards, shocked by the amount of strength in her much smaller hand, and twists her wrist a second time until she is forced to let go. The knife clatters to the floor, and the two of them are left standing there, Castiel forced against the wall and Schulz pinning him there with one hand while the other continues to be trapped by Castiel’s.

“What?” he cries in alarm, letting panic creep into his voice. “I’m not– I’m sorry– my friend and I, we were just fooling around–”

“You’re lying.” She lets him go, and Castiel suddenly finds that he can’t move. Her hand slips out of his vice-like grip easily. Castiel can’t see her, but he hears her bend down to pick up the knife.

Without bothering to agree, he tries once again to push himself away from the wall, realising a moment later that there isn’t anything physically restraining him.  _Not a werewolf_.

Since he can’t move, his only chance is words; not his strong point, but if she is the one restraining him through whatever means are being used, a distraction may be enough to get his movement back. “You killed those people,” he hisses into the wall, not bothering with his façade any longer. His current position is inexpedient; he can't see Schulz or whatever it is she’s doing. “Didn’t you?”

“Where is your friend?” She doesn’t answer the question. “The one you came here with." 

“He is not my friend.” He tries to move his fingers, but he is being spun around before he can assess his successfulness. His back now planted to the bricks behind him, he can see that Schulz is holding her knife again. It’s a Bowie knife, about nine inches long. He doesn’t care.

“Where did he go?”

“How the hell should I know, I just met the guy. He bolted.”

She isn’t looking at his face any more; she’s looking at his chest. Given what he knows about her history, Castiel is fairly certain this should concern him. It doesn’t. He’s too absorbed in breaking free of the invisible bonds holding him. It doesn’t feel like his limbs won’t respond to his brain; it feels like they are wrapped in duct tape. That’s something, at least. Better than the alternative.

“You’ll do,” she says, and she sounds genuinely pleased, in a sick, twisted kind of way. She places her hand above Castiel’s heart, and he glares down at her defiantly. If she can feel his pulse, she’ll know it’s completely steady.

“What do you mean?” he says through gritted teeth, eyes flickering past her for some kind of out. He hasn’t lost his calm, but he feels very close to doing so. It occurs to him that she has every intention of cutting his heart out.  _Like hell she’s going to do that._

“You’re strong, healthy.” She nods, satisfied. “And you’re not like the others; nobody will miss a hunter. Nobody ever does.”

Castiel swallows. He already knows that, of course; having nobody to miss you is one of the prerequisites for the job. Clearly Schulz knows it too. Apparently, she knows it from experience. He shudders, wondering if there are more victims he doesn’t know about.

The next thing to happen happens in a blur, because Castiel can suddenly move, and slumping forward off the side of the house disorientates him. Schulz is also slumping forward. In fact, she topples right into Castiel’s unexpectant arms, her eyes staring straight ahead glassily.

A long silver blade, more than a foot in length, is protruding from the base of her skull, and she is quite clearly dead.

Castiel lets go of her instantaneously, and the lifeless body drops to his feet like a stone. For once, he’s grateful for the dim light, because he would rather not see the injury in all of its detail.

“Okay, Cas?” Dean looks visibly shaken. More than shaken, in fact, but he makes no further comment as he bends down and pulls the blade—long enough to be considered a sword, really—from Leonie Schulz’s head.

“What the hell happened to you?” Castiel asks without bothering to answer Dean’s question, attempting to pull himself together with as much dignity as possible. He hasn’t been wholly unaffected by the experience, even after everything he’s seen and done in his career.

“I figured you could handle her.” Dean meets his eyes as Castiel moves away from the wall, taking care not to step on the body at their feet. “That, and you did tell me I should run if we hit trouble,” he adds dryly, a hint of amusement entering his voice. Castiel scowls.

“You should have. Why did you come back?”

The words  _are you fucking kidding me_ might as well be tattooed on Dean’s face. “I never left,” he says. “I was looking through her house. There’s some serious hoodoo going on in there; you should take a look. She’s no werewolf.”

“You don’t say.”

Castiel has killed plenty of people. Well, he’s killed plenty of monsters, but he is more than used to death. Even so, there is something that nags at him to say that he shouldn’t just leave her body here. He forces it away; now that she is dead, the less they interfere, the better. Giving her one last look, Castiel takes a hold of Dean’s arm and pulls him away. Apparently, there is more here to see. “I believe I owe you my gratitude.”

“Not bad for an amateur, huh?” Dean smirks.

Castiel looks away, embarrassed. “I may have underestimated you. I don’t believe for a second that that this is your first hunt.”

Dean looks down at the object he is holding. “Believe whatever you want.”

“Where did that come from?” Castiel asks suddenly, gesturing to the weapon Dean is carrying. “You didn’t have it when we arrived.”

“This?” Dean stops short, frowning at the object. “This was in her house. I took it, figured you’d need a hand.”

“Haven’t seen anything like it before,” Castiel says, holding out his hand. “Give it to me.”

Dean pulls it out of his reach quickly. “I’d, uh, rather hold onto it. I just killed a person with it.”

“Right. Sorry.” Castiel doesn’t follow this logic at all, but he lets it drop. He’s never been much of a knife user anyway; guns are his weapons of choice.

They reach the front door. It must have been left open when Schulz came outside, since Dean was able to get in so quickly. Dean steps through it without hesitating, Castiel following a few feet behind. He pulls his Glock out of his jacket, just in case.

Away from the body on the ground outside, Castiel has time to call his thoughts into order. He’s a hunter; there may still be a lot capable of taking his composure, but there’s also an awful lot that can’t, and this is one of them. Through some freak of chance—and the intuition of a nine-year-old boy—he has found his killer, and taken her out. He still hasn’t found the motivation behind what she was doing—although it would now appear that his unlikely hunting companion has, somewhere in this otherwise normal-looking house.

They need to leave soon. There’s no telling when the body will be found, but Castiel has no desire to be involved in the investigation when it is. He’s careful not to leave fingerprints.

Dean on the other hand barges right ahead unconcerned, having apparently gotten over his shock or at least taken it under control. He leads Castiel to a half open door, which leads them into a large bedroom. The double bed has already been pushed aside, and–

And Castiel understands what Dean meant by serious hoodoo. “Fuck.”

Dean steps aside to reveal his earlier findings, but Castiel has already seen it. He’s been in the houses of enough witches to know one when he sees one. The floor underneath of the bed is home to a poorly hidden trove of all things black magic; from simple objects such as candles and incense to a vast array of knives, a human skull, and closed bags containing nothing that Castiel cares to check. It’s always the same variation of body parts and aging herbs.

Dean picks up a heavy, leather bound book from the bed. He has evidently already leafed through it, judging by where he finds it.

“Witch.” Castiel has to resist gagging. Of all things, a witch. It’s the worst part about hunting; finding out that the monster you’re after is a human being. It blurs the clear distinction between the ‘goodies’ and the ‘baddies’ that so many hunters he knows have come to depend on.

“She’s not an ordinary witch.”’

“Well, yeah, the majority of witches stick to job promotions and sacrificing cats but we never hear about those.”

“I’m serious, Cas, come and look at this.”

Castiel comes and looks.

It looks like an ordinary spell book. For all intents and purposes, it is, but it’s like no spell book Castiel has ever seen. It’s in Latin, which he can read just fine, except there are passages in some other language he doesn’t recognise—dozens of them, all hand written in between diagrams of shapes and sigils. The book itself is old and going brittle; Dean handles it gingerly while he turns its pages.

“This isn’t your ordinary run of the mill witch book,” Dean says, looking up to meet Castiel’s eyes. Castiel gets the distinct impression that Dean wishes he were alone.

He does not humour him. “What’s different about it?”

“There’s Enochian writing in it, for starters.” Dean flicks through it more while Castiel looks on.

“And I suppose you can read Enochian.”

“I can.” Dean’s face darkens. “These spells involve demons.”

Castiel laughs. He sees Dean’s expression. He stops. “Are you joking?”

Confusion flickers across the surface of Dean’s face. “No.”

“Dean, there’s no recorded sighting of a demon in over a century, even among hunters.” Castiel has never fancied himself a doubting Thomas but there is too much happening right now for him to focus on exploring unlikely possibilities.

“Yes, it’s…” Dean glances around the room, closing the book. “We need to take this. How the hell did a schoolteacher get her hands on it?”

Castiel assumes it’s a rhetorical question but the reason he fails to answer is because he has no answer to give. “I know the rumours, Dean, but every witch I have  _ever_  met has been harnessing natural energies using black magic. If it were possible to just  _call_  a demon, some hunter somewhere would have met one.”

Looking frustrated, Dean opens the book again to a predetermined page. “This is the page that’s been opened most,” he says, standing beside Castiel and showing it to him. “It’s not a summoning spell, it’s…a radar. She’s trying to track down something that doesn’t want to be tracked.”

“She  _was_.” Castiel’s eyes flick down the page, interested. The writing itself is faded, but he can read it well enough—the Latin component, at least.

He can see what she needed human hearts for now; the spell uses them, as well as another list of ingredients that are, somehow, far more gruesome. And, lo and behold, the spell works best during the days of the full moon. Nate had been wrong about the werewolf, but the pattern was there nonetheless. Whatever Leonie Schulz was hoping to accomplish in what she was doing, she had wanted it very badly. Enough to kill for a single attempt and repeat that attempt almost regularly. By the looks of things, the four parents are not the only people she killed.

“We need to get out of here,” he says, looking over the pile of items at their feet. “Someone could have seen us. We can talk about this later.”

Without hesitating, Dean moves the bed back into its original position. Castiel wonders briefly how anyone could bear to sleep in a room full of…that. Then again, he sleeps with a gun under his pillow and an arsenal beside his bed. He is hardly one to talk.  

They leave the house the way they found it, although Dean is still holding the silver blade and the book. It’s a short but rushed trip down the street to the car before Castiel is sliding behind the wheel and the familiar growl of the engine indicates that they are speeding away.

They’re silent for a long while, neither daring to speak first. Castiel grips the steering wheel to the point of his knuckles turning white while Dean stares at his lap, holding the sword close and the book closer.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks at last, turning to look at him for a moment. There is a shadow covering Dean’s face, making it difficult to see the emotion there.

“Demons are bad news,” Dean says without answering the question. “If there’s a witch trying to contact one there’s gotta be a reason—she wouldn’t do it out of curiosity.”

“What do you know about demons?” Castiel is genuinely curious. He has every intention of reading the book in Dean’s hands himself later, if for no reason other than to gain an understanding. He still isn’t sure whether he agrees with what Dean is saying—actual demons are a far-fetched concept—but correct or not, Dean has proven himself reliable so far.

“Not a lot. They’re supposedly from hell and they’re powerful.” He shrugs, uncomfortable. It’s a blatant lie. “What do  _you_  know about them?”

“Me?” Castiel frowns. “Dean, there are hunters who don’t even believe they exist—I sure as hell haven’t had reason to think they do. There are…stories that people who figure out how to summon them can trade their souls in exchange for having a wish granted, but nobody knows if that’s true.”

“They exist.” Dean looks out the window. “I’d just assumed most of ‘em were minding their own business. Nobody can find a demon that doesn’t want to be found.”

There’s a pause. Dean isn’t exactly being forthcoming. “How do you know?”

Dean shrugs again, this time turning to face him. There’s some vestige of long-buried pain there now, but his face hardens before Castiel can properly take it in. “Doesn’t matter. There’s more going on here than just witchcraft. Schulz was  _searching out_ a demon. You know who does that? Crazy people. I’ve gotta find out why; the answer’s probably in here.” He pats the book.

“Slow down.” Castiel brings the car to a halt as they come to a stoplight. He’s heading back to Dean’s house. The drive wasn’t long on the way here, but it wasn’t short either. “Dean, I don’t know who you are or where you come from and to be honest, I don’t give a damn.” He looks at Dean again, able to take his eyes off the road for a brief moment. “But you did just say you didn’t know a lot and it seems to me like you do. What’s the deal here?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean repeats, irritated. “Listen, Cas, I don’t know any more about this than you do–”

“Apparently not the case.”

“—but it’s none of  _your_  concern. You’re just a soldier; you step in, kill the monster, save the innocent, go home. You’re finished here. I can handle this; there’s a bigger picture and I’m going to look into it, find out more—”

Castiel has had enough. “You know, you’re full of shit, Dean Winchester.”

Dean looks affronted. “What’d you just say to me?”

“You find out more and then what? Broadcast it and put it online?” He accelerates as the light turns green. “I’m not even gonna bring that up, because you know where I stand on the matter. But don’t you  _dare_  think that I don’t care about the so-called ‘bigger picture’. Is that all hunting is to you? Killing the monster?”

“It’s all hunting is, period,” Dean says darkly. “It’s savagery. Don’t get me wrong; I know it’s important. But you  _chose_  that life. It takes a certain kind of character to  _choose_ something like that.”

“Fuck you.” Castiel is too worked up to give a more rational response; he’s only human, after all, and this came out of nowhere. “You don’t know anything, you hear me? You don’t know anything about me and you sure as hell don’t understand hunting. That’s why you do what you do. You don’t _get_ it.”

“Why would you care about what Schulz was up to?” In spite of the frustration in Dean’s voice, he sounds genuinely interested. “She’s dead now. You’ve done your job.”

“Because she  _killed_ people over it.” Castiel turns a corner, staring straight ahead, gritting his teeth. “Because I’m not just some grunt with a gun, as you seem to think. I’m not a mindless psychopath; I have doubts. I don’t always know what I’m doing, or what’s right and what’s wrong.”

He takes a deep breath, calming himself. Dean is right, about hunters; they crave the simplicity of the hunt and the kill—but not Castiel. He’s never fit the mould. “Look, who can say if you’re right about demons; all we have to go on is a book. But if you are, then people can still get hurt, I am  _not_  letting it drop. If you’re investigating further, I am too.”

Dean looks as though he is about to reply, but he doesn’t get the chance because at that moment, a truck coming from a perpendicular road slams into the side of the car.

 

 

* * *

 

Castiel has woken in plenty of strange hospitals during the last ten years. Every morning, he finds himself waking in a brand new unfamiliar bed. So the initial disorientation he used to feel when blinking himself conscious after being knocked out is dampened by experience. Even so, he feels fatigued—probably medication—and it takes him several minutes to properly get his bearings.

He can smell something, too; the unmistakeable scent hospitals carry that his ten-year-old self labelled ‘the medicine smell’. It’s everywhere, invading his senses, all sterile and unpleasant. He swears he can taste it on his tongue.

He opens his eyes properly. It’s bright but he forces himself to keep them parted, squinting while he adjusts. There’s a large piece of padding bandaged to the side of his head, from what he can tell, but miraculously, he feels in near-perfect health. Even the sluggishness he had woken with is already dissipating, like the light is burning it away.

Some part of his brain knows that that is wrong. He doesn’t remember anything past the brief moment he had between registering the vehicle—it had been running a red light—and it colliding with him. He assumes his head must have hit the dashboard or the window. The throbbing ache underneath the padding confirms this theory. Even so, the pain is bearable—again, probably medication, but he feels well enough to sit up, and he does so.

A few other heads in the ward he finds himself in turn to look briefly in his direction, and a nurse is suddenly at his side.

“How are you feeling, Emmanuel?”

 _Emmanuel._  Castiel doesn’t bother with formalities. He’s done this drill before; if his condition were serious he’d know so already. “Dean,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“Oh, ah, Dean?” The nurse sounds confused. “I’m sorry, you’re checked in under—”

“Not me,” Castiel interjects impatiently. “Dean was in the car with me; what happened to him?”

“Take it easy,” he says, voice gentle but firm, and Castiel is already fed up with him. “Can you tell me what you remember?”

“My car got hit by a fucking truck is what I remember,” Castiel says, and the rest of the ward is turning to face him again. “I had a passenger. What happened to him?”

“Right here,” Dean’s voice says, and both Castiel and the nurse are turning towards the sound. Castiel has a moment of staggering relief.

Dean is half-jogging down the ward to Castiel’s bed. He’s unaccompanied, and he holds a large green cloth bag in one hand. He also looks like he’s in perfect health. “Sorry.” Dean comes to a stop beside the bed. “Visiting hours only just started.”

Castiel doesn’t doubt it. He has a lot of questions to ask, not the least of which is how they survived the crash, but he holds them in for the time being now that he knows they both did. Instead, he turns to face the nurse again without addressing Dean, feeling somewhat guilty for his initial outburst at the man. “I feel fine, thank you. Better than fine.”

He looks relieved. “All our tests show that you  _are_  fine,” he explains, looking down at Castiel’s chart. “Except for a minor head injury you’re poster boy healthy. The doctors are calling it a miracle.”

“Are they.” Castiel raises his head to look at Dean. “What about him? He was in the crash as well.”

The nurse glances at Dean. “The ambulance report said you were found alone.”

“I was fine too, actually,” Dean says dismissively. Castiel’s eyes narrow. “I called for paramedics and took off when I saw ‘em coming.”

“How in the world—” Castiel cuts himself off. If he only has a minor injury, the crash must have been minor as well or at the very least, not as bad as he’d feared. However, he doesn’t believe for a second that Dean could have just walked away from it. He looks at the nurse again, offering an awkward smile. He needs to put the pieces together. “Don’t suppose you can tell me the state of my car?”

Dean answers instead. “Let’s just hope you’ve got insurance.”

Castiel groans. He doesn’t—how is a hunter supposed to have car insurance? “It’s a four wheel drive,” he says, like it matters.

“It was in a side-on with an auto-transport semitrailer. Didn’t stand a chance.” Dean doesn’t seem to be taking this whole situation seriously. If anything, he looks almost pleased. He pauses. “Hey, uh, would you mind if my friend and I had a moment?” he asks the nurse.

The man turns to Castiel again. “If you’re sure you’re feeling better, you’re good to discharge yourself later today, but there’s some paperwork for you to fill out first.”

“I feel fine,” he repeats, his grin not fading. “Could you go and get it?”

“I’ll have it brought to you when I finish my round.”

“Thanks.”

The moment he leaves, Castiel’s smile is gone, and he turns to Dean. “What the hell happened?”

“The guy told you—”

“My car is ruined but both of us just walk away? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dean objects. “I come to my senses and I’m in the car next to you with a giant freaking transport vehicle on one side and you on the other. I checked your vitals and you were alive but I didn’t want to risk moving you. My phone was still working so I called 911. When I heard sirens I climbed over you and walked the rest of the way home.”

“Just like that?” Castiel asks in disbelief, eyes pulling into a squint. “After a car crash?”

Dean frowns. “Yeah.” His face softens with sincerity. “Cas, I swear,” he says, his voice dropping as he meets Castiel’s eyes. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t, okay? I wish I did. I don’t even have a theory. This is exactly the kind of crazy that nobody hears about.”

Castiel remembers the nurse’s words.  _The doctors are calling it a miracle._ Whatever it is, it is certainly that. He just hopes there isn’t some unforseen drawback. If he knows nothing else, he knows no good things ever come without a price.

“What time is it?” he asks suddenly, glancing around the ward. It had been dark when they left Schulz house, but the window at the end of the room shows daylight—not to mention Dean’s unquestioned entrance to the ward indicates visiting hours.

“Ten in the morning.”

“What!”

“You were out almost fifteen hours,” Dean goes on. “I got here about half an hour ago to check on you and they didn’t let me in until now.”

“Thanks,” he says vaguely. He and Dean are hardly friends and their argument is far from forgotten—but he’s grateful to him nonetheless. Nobody else was going to visit him.

“I’m guessing they had you on some drugs that made you drowsy,” Dean says. His face is suddenly serious. “Cas, what I came to talk to you about; they’ve found Schulz. I hacked into the police coms from home.” His voice has dropped to almost a whisper, but Castiel hears him just fine.

He’s hardly surprised, really. “And?”

“And there’s a neighbour from down the street who described your damn camper car,” Dean adds sourly. “As far as I know it hasn’t been connected it to the truck accident yet but given the car and the proximity to her house it’s only a matter of time. I gave 911 your alias when I called them but the cops will have questions for you soon. You need to blow town. Like, right now.”

“Shit.” Castiel pushes the hospital sheets off himself and throws one leg over the side of the bed. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m serious, don’t.” Dean looks along the ward again. “If I were you I wouldn’t bother checking yourself out. Just leave.”

Castiel glances down at himself. “I need different clothes,” he says. “I can’t just walk out the door looking like a patient.”

Dean holds up the cloth bag. “These are some of mine. They’ll have to do.”

Castiel looks inside, frowning. Dean has apparently thought this through. “I’ve…initiated an escape from hospital in the past,” he says, remembering the incident in Florida following a run-in with a vampire. “If I change my clothes before the nurse notices it still won’t be easy, but I’m confident I can pull it off.” He stands. A few beds down, the nurse looks up at him, and Castiel gestures to the sign directing to the restroom. He seems to deem him capable, because he nods and gets back to his work.

Castiel was unconscious for a while; suddenly on his feet, his legs are unsteady and his vision swims, making him sway. Dean notices it too, grabbing his arm to stabilise him. As if by magic, his eyesight clears, and he touches the bandage on his head, pausing to glance at Dean. He lets go.

The signs make the restroom easy to find. Dean already knows where he’s going, but he stays near Castiel while he walks, about a foot or two behind him. Castiel suspects he’s worried about another fall, but he manages surprisingly well.

The bathroom room is empty. He shuts himself inside the cubicle and strips off nimbly. Dean waits outside, pretending to wash his hands at the sink whilst, presumably, keeping watch at the door.

The bag contains a pair of jeans and a plaid shirt. The shirt fits him fine but the jeans are slightly loose, and Dean has conveniently forgotten a belt. He doesn’t have the time nor the energy to reflect on the fact that they’re sharing clothes at all. He’s worn plenty of second hand clothing but simply borrowing seems too personal. It’s not his style, and he’s only just met Dean.

He’s not going to complain, though. The man is giving him an out and he’s taking it.

There’s also a hoodie. Smart, he thinks, pulling it on and using the hood to cover the bandage on the side of his forehead. It should at least be less obvious. He pulls on the pair of sneakers at the bottom of the bag. They’re also a size too large and missing socks, but the bottom of the jeans covers them. He’ll manage.

“You done in there?” Dean hisses, and Castiel opens the cubicle door, leaving the hospital gown on top of the toilet to be found later. Dean tucks the empty bag under his arm.

The door back into the hallway is open a crack. “Anyone there?” Castiel peers around it.

“Not yet.” Dean turns to face him, taking a moment to look him over. “The layout’s pretty simple. It’s just a lift ride down to the lobby and out the door.”

Castiel nods thoughtfully. All being well, they’ll be long gone by the time anyone catches on.

“Why are you helping me?”

Dean is about to walk into the hallway but the question stops him. Castiel raises his eyebrows. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it, but we aren’t exactly…” He makes a motion with his hands. “On the same page.”

Dean looks sombre, and he casts his eyes down with a soft smile. It catches Castiel off-guard, in a way, just how heart-warming the man’s face can be at such an unexpected time. When he looks up again, his eyes are clear and green, filled with sincerity. Castiel hasn’t appreciated how pretty they are until now.

The moment passes. “’Cause I’m awesome,” Dean says, smirking. “Alright, let’s do this. If you need a distraction I’ll call in the cavalry.” He leaves Castiel standing in the bathroom, taken aback by the rapid change in atmosphere.

“What’s the cavalry?” he asks as he follows him out, falling into step beside him.

Dean grins. “Me.”

They never have to call in the cavalry. Twenty minutes later the two of them board a public bus and it rushes them away from the hospital.

 

 

* * *

 

“Here’s your gun; I took it out of your jacket before I left the crash site but if there were any other firearms in the car they’re still there.”

“I cleaned them last night; most of them are at my motel.” Castiel accepts the gun, turning it over in his hands. Dean seems pleased to get rid of it.

The attic of Dean’s house is virtually unchanged from yesterday, although the door to the sound booth is open, and Castiel has discovered that Dean keeps his laptop in there with the mixing board. Dean himself is standing by the stacks of books, having thrown the Glock carelessly on top of them when he got home after the accident.

“Why did you leave?” Castiel ventures, concealing the pistol inside the front of the hoodie he’s still wearing. “Miracle though it was for you to just…walk away, you should have gone to the hospital to get checked out.”

“What, like you?” Dean straightens a book absentmindedly. Castiel recognises its cover;  _The God Delusion_ , by Richard Dawkins. “I’ve been in worse scrapes. I’m fine.”

“Worse than getting hit by a semitrailer?” Castiel’s lip curls in amusement, and Dean cocks his head, confused.

“Yes.”

Castiel chuckles, still smiling. “Yesterday I wouldn’t have believed that.”

They fall silent, studying each other.

“I’m not going to cancel my show.”

“I’m not going to stop you.”

Dean looks at him dubiously. Castiel holds up his hands. “You saved my life, Dean. I don’t like owing people favours, so…I’ll get the rest of the hunters off your back, somehow. I still don’t agree with what you’re doing, but I’m not dumb enough to miss that I can’t keep you from doing it.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dean says, and Castiel doesn’t doubt it. If he has to take away one thing about Dean it’s that he is a man of many layers. In more ways than one, if his clothing choices are anything to go by. “Thanks.”

“Thank  _you_.”

Castiel isn’t enjoying this, this talking it out. He is someone who leaves; he doesn’t goodbye.

“How are you leaving?”

Castiel starts. “You’re talking about my car?” He grimaces. “Crap, I forgot about that.” They had come back to Dean’s house on the bus in order to get the Glock, but he still has to make it back to his motel, and he has no vehicle—neither does Dean, apparently.

“They towed it, from what I can tell.”

“It’ll be in a car yard somewhere.” He rubs his temples. “Since it’s subject in a murder investigation I can’t go back for it if I can’t drive it away, but there’s still a load of hunting equipment inside it.”

“It was pretty banged up,” Dean says helpfully. “Most of it probably got ruined anyway. I can show you a picture, if you want.”

“I’d rather not. There’s nothing I can do about it yet.” He shrugs it off, massaging the back of his neck. He feels incredibly tired.  There’s still a lot to do; the Patrol was registered to an alias and he can replace the weapons that were in it, but he has to make sure nobody can trace it back to his identity.  There are all manner of objects in there that could give him away which may have survived the ordeal. He sighs. “I’ll find out where they’ve taken it and see what they’ve salvaged. Then, I don’t know, I’ll get a new car.”

“Get a better one.”

Castiel scowls. Dean grins.

“Listen, Cas.” Dean’s face is serious. “Something freakish happened here today. We should not have survived that crash and there is something severely wrong going on at Schulz’ house. I don’t have an answer for it and I’m guessing you’ve got no clue.”

Castiel nods reluctantly. “I wouldn’t even know where to start. What did you do with that book?”

Without another word, Dean turns around and gets on his knees, pushing aside various other volumes before pulling out the one in question. He has apparently gone to an effort to keep it from sight. “Right here. But it’s just spells, from what I read. I don’t think we’ll be getting a lot of answers.”

Castiel reaches out, and Dean immediately pulls it out of reach. They stare at each other for a long moment, blue eyes against green, and Dean stands, still eyeing Castiel warily and cradling the old spell book to his chest.

After holding Dean’s gaze for a further few seconds, Castiel glances down at the book again. Nothing has changed from earlier; it seems that, like himself and Dean, it escaped unscathed. “I’m taking it with me,” he says.

“That’s not gonna happen.” Dean’s voice is suddenly harsh. “I need it.”

“It wasn’t a question.” Castiel’s eyes return to Dean. “I don’t trust you and I have to look into this.”

“You’re kidding me.” Dean’s eyes narrow. So do Castiel’s. “I saved your ass twice.”

“I can’t let you take it, Dean.”

Dean’s lip curls. “You don’t want to make me angry, Castiel. I don’t trust you as far as I can throw, and if you think I’m letting you walk out of here with something this dangerous…” Dean’s eyes flick down. “You’re wrong.”

“Then we have a problem.”

Castiel can take the book by force. He has a gun in his pocket, and he’s a trained hunter. He’s taken on bigger fish than Dean singlehandedly and won. He does, however, know Dean well enough to know that that would be pointless. Dean’s already proven that he’s not afraid of much, least of all him, and the book is probably not going to help him much anyway.

He’s about to continue when Dean responds. “I’m coming with you.”

“Dean—”

“Take me with you,” Dean says, rephrasing. “It’s a good deal. We’d both get the book and we’re both looking for the same thing. I know we’re not friends, but you and I, we work together. I’m no hunter but I know crap that can help you.”

“Why would you want to help me?”

It’s a similar question to the one from the hospital, and the meaning is more or less the same, but the reaction it elicits from Dean is at odds with before.

“It’s not about you,” Dean says. “I need something, and you can help me. I’m pretty sure I can help you as well, if the past 24 hours are any clue.”

“I don’t need you.”

“Sure you don’t. But I’m yours if you want me and you’re not getting the book any other way.”

Castiel ignores the double meaning behind this sentence; Dean obviously didn’t pick up on it.

Much as he hates to admit it, he could very easily be dead now if it weren’t for Dean. He wouldn’t even have found the witch if it weren’t for Dean—not as quickly as he had, at least.

And much as he hates to admit it even more, Dean  _would_  be an asset. The man is swathed in enigmas with no indication they can be pulled away, but he is also a genius. He  _knows_  things. Their brief case together has been enough to confirm Bobby’s statement; in another life, Dean would be a formidable hunter.

The lack of trust between them is an almost physical barrier, and they can both sense it. Even so, Dean is only human; Castiel is not afraid of him. If he his intent is harmful he’s already passed over three opportunities to just not help him.

“Alright,” he says finally. He isn’t sure what he was expecting. It’s an important decision he is making after so little time for judgement, but nothing in the room changes to accommodate it. The word just hangs in the air.

Dean straightens, arms crossing without letting go of the spell book. “Good,” he says, pausing. “My roommates all reckon I’m an escaped convict now ‘cause of you anyway.”

Castiel glances at the door. “I have to go,” he says. “I’ll take care of the car situation and get back to my motel. I imagine you have things to do as well. You know you can’t take that on the road,” he adds, gesturing to the sound booth. Dean looks at it wistfully.

“Looks like I’m putting it on hold,” he says, shaking his head sadly. “I’ll do my last live session this afternoon and tell my listeners what’s going on.”

Dean must have realised that before he made the offer. Castiel is surprised; Dean has acted so passionate about his program up until now. For him to suddenly be willing to leave it is…unusual. But then, they’ve known each other less than a day. He decides not to comment; he gave Dean his chance.

“Get everything you want to take ready,” is all he says. “I’ll get a hold of another car.”

“How exactly do you plan to do that?”

“Steal one,” Castiel says wryly. He’ll give an anonymous 911 call when he dumps the car, but right now his priority is getting out of Lawrence with Dean and the contents of his motel room. He can buy himself a proper car later on with the money he has set aside. 

Dean gives him his number. Castiel lost his cell phone in the crash and he can’t rely on reacquiring any of the burners, so he simply pockets the strip of paper for later. They agree to meet back there at five o’clock. Since it’s now eleven, Castiel has six hours to be ready for him. Part of him is hoping that Dean will just blow town and leave, or change his mind.

“By the way,” he adds, stopping as he heads for the door to the attic. Dean perks up. “Dean Smith or Dean Winchester?”

Dean looks down, smiling to himself. “Dean Smith is some recluse who lives off of beer in an attic. Dean Winchester is a man who tells the world about monsters and saves hunters from witches.”

Castiel doesn’t know why, but he smiles as well, just a little. “Which one are you?”

He looks up. “I’m just Dean.” 

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “Okay, then, Dean. I guess I’ll see you at five.”


	2. Worthington, Minnesota

The blue Honda Civic Castiel steals from another guest at the motel is smaller than what he’s used to, a fact of which hurriedly fitting his guns and carry bags into the boot makes him painfully aware. Still, he doesn’t have time to be choosy, so he’s away with the vehicle in a matter of minutes.

A quick stop by the crash site reveals just how bad the accident had been; it’s still fenced off, and it seems like after it hit the Patrol, the truck swerved off the road and into somebody’s yard. The newspaper he picked up before leaving the motel also has something to say on the matter; miraculously, nobody was severely injured in the accident. Even the truck driver got out with only minor cuts. Driving a stolen car, Castiel doesn’t stay to investigate as long as he’d like; there are police officers present.

He tracks down the car yard as well, but again, he doesn’t stick around to be discovered. A quick look at what was once his car is enough to confirm that not only is it past the point of no return, but also that anything inside it is beyond his power to retrieve. He can see the front seats, however; despite the wreckage in the rest of the vehicle, the space where he and Dean were sitting is more or less unchanged. His eyes narrow before he finally takes off. He’ll have to take his chances.

True to his word, Dean is ready to leave when Castiel finally returns to his house. Castiel discovers that the man knows how to pack lightly. A single green duffel bag is slung over his shoulder while he waits on the curb to meet him. Castiel doesn’t ask what’s inside; what Dean takes with him is Dean’s business.

Lawrence is in the rear-view mirror within half an hour. Neither of them speak more than a few words. They abandon the car in Leavenworth, forty-five minutes later, and hotwire a silver Toyota Camry before continuing north.

That was four hours ago. They’re still driving.

They keep conversation to a minimum. Castiel hasn’t eaten anything since a protein bar before leaving his motel, but he presses on. Fortunately, Dean hasn’t complained either, but he knows they need to stop and rest soon; for food, mostly, not to mention the fact that it’s getting dark. Castiel can go for a day without sleep just fine, but he’s not invincible, and neither is Dean.

“Where did you say we were going?”

They’re the first words exchanged between them in at least an hour. Castiel looks across at Dean for a moment. He’s expecting some mark of tiredness, fatigue, anything, but the man looks exactly as he did when they first met; his eyes are bright, his hair immaculate. Castiel wishes he found it less irritating than he did. “Worthington, Minnesota,” he replies, checking the fuel gauge. “A mauled body showed up in a local park last night—read it in the paper before we left.”

“What happened to, you know, the demon thing?” Dean sits back in his seat, looking uncomfortable in the confines of the car.

“We don’t even know if it is a demon thing,” Castiel says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “We’ve got absolutely no leads to chase. When we stop somewhere we’ll do some background research on Schulz—probably even go back to Lawrence once the murder case goes cold. I wouldn’t mind reading the spellbook, if you can be persuaded to let go of it,” he finishes wryly. “Until then, I’m going to keep doing my job.”

Dean shrugs, looking out the window. Castiel’s eyes linger on the back of his head for a moment before turning back to the darkened road.

“Your case is as good as mine,” Dean says finally, as though he’s only just realised he’s expected to answer. His lack of comment regarding the book is notable, but Castiel doesn’t call him out on it; he’s too tired right now.

“It’s another two hours’ drive,” he adds, fishing for some other response from the man. Dean turns his head towards him again. “If we stop for the night in the next town we should be able to start work on the case tomorrow morning if we leave early.”

“This is slow.” Dean’s eyes move to the road. Castiel’s narrow irritably.

“This is a hunter’s life; roads and diner food. If you can’t put up with it you shouldn’t have come.” He sets his jaw. He wouldn’t normally be so easily irked, but then, it’s late and he’s hungry and this car has a pair of fuzzy dice hanging from the rear view mirror. “What would you rather do? Fly?”

“On a plane?” Dean looks personally offended. “Hell no. I’m just saying, automobile transport’s…inefficient.”

“Pardon me.”

They stop talking.

The next town they pass through is twenty minutes later, and Castiel stops the car outside a 24-hour Biggerson’s. He would have preferred to go somewhere with a drive-through, but his back is aching and he’s about to pass out behind the wheel. Dean hasn’t offered to drive, and Castiel doesn’t ask him to. Anyone willing to sit in a passenger seat next to the person who got them hit by a semitrailer must be extremely incompetent behind a steering wheel.

He gets out of the Camry and begins to make his way toward the welcoming brightness of the restaurant, turning back to see Dean eyeing off the car park suspiciously from beside the car. He seems out of place here. Before, in the attic and Schulz’ house and later the hospital, he’d always had some important ulterior purpose, and it showed in his demeanour. Now, he looks…lost, like a kid who strayed from his parents at a shopping centre. Maybe he’s just not used to travelling.

Castiel crosses his arms while he waits for him to join him. “You’re sure it’s a good idea to just leave that there?” Dean asks, gesturing to the Camry.

“I won’t be once I’ve had some coffee.” Castiel opens the door to the diner, suddenly remembering that he still has a bandage around his head. The pain has dulled since the morning; he’s barely conscious of it.

They find a booth in the back corner and sit down opposite one another. Dean’s head turns back to the window beside their table, eyes moving between the car and the rest of the parking lot. Castiel watches him for a moment with vague curiosity before clearing his throat to get his attention. “Listen, the police aren’t going to find our trail just yet and if they do we can throw them off. I’ve been doing this for years.”

“Save it.” Dean fixes him with that cool green stare. “I’m not worried about the police and I sure as hell don’t need reassurance. Just…got a lot of work to do. Tell me about this body,” he says, changing the subject. Castiel looks suspicious.

“His name was Peter Watts,” he says, fishing the scrunched piece of newspaper from his pocket and smoothing it out between them. “He was a nineteen year old waiter. According to his family, he went to bed at ten thirty and was found dead in the park by a jogger at around five—that was this morning.”

Dean pulls the article closer to himself, eyes scanning its contents. “That sucks.”

“It does suck,” Castiel agrees darkly. “There’s nothing in the article that says what it could’ve been, but ‘mauled’ definitely sets off some warning bells. Could be an animal attack–”

“–Could be something else,” Dean finishes, and Castiel’s lip curls. They’re interrupted by the appearance of their waiter.

“Can I get you anything?” He sounds tired, probably at the end of his shift. Castiel can sympathise; he makes a mental note to tip him extra.

“Coffee, please—black.” Castiel glances over the menu. “And a…bacon cheeseburger.”

“I’m cool, thanks,” Dean says. Castiel looks at him incredulously.

“You’re sure? You haven’t eaten in…” He pauses. “At least seven hours.”

“I’m not much of an eater,” he explains, shrugging. “It’s distracting.”

“Distracting?” That’s almost laughable. Castiel turns to the waiter again. “He’ll have a bacon cheeseburger as well.”

Once the order is written and the man leaves, Castiel turns his attention back to his companion. “What do you mean ‘distracting’?” He sits back in his seat, watching Dean scan the parking lot yet again, eyes lingering on the Camry.

Dean shakes his head, clearly not wanting to discuss it. “Forget it; I’ll eat. But you’re paying.” He pushes the newspaper clipping back to Castiel.

Castiel snorts, pocketing it. “Fine.” The thought of expenses sparks an interest in him, and after a pause, he adds, “I am curious, though; what’s the money like in radio broadcasting? I noticed you didn’t have any ads.”

At this, Dean chuckles. “Nothing at all, at least for me. I had to pay for all my equipment, not to mention the domain for my website, so I don’t actually break even.”

Castiel feels another brief spike of guilt. Dean likes what he does—did—enough to be comfortable making a loss for it. He’s about to ask if the man has another day job when Dean beats him to it.

“What about you?” He cocks his head. “Last I checked, hunting wasn’t exactly the best paid job in America. How do  _you_  scrape by?”

“It’s not how you think,” Castiel replies. “A lot of our practices aren’t exactly…within the bounds of the law, but I try to stick to it when I can.” He looks Dean up and down, considering. “I wasn’t…poor, before I became a hunter,” he says carefully. “I still have a house, that I rent out to a tenant. It’s not luxury but it keeps me going. Enough to pay for food and accommodation and ammo, things like that, and if I ever need extra then, yeah, sometimes you’ve gotta break out the credit card scams.”

Dean nods slowly. He looks less disapproving than Castiel had anticipated, but there’s a hint of apprehension there.

Castiel carries on. “So if the show isn’t what brings in the money for your livelihood, what is?” he asks, curious. “You’ve got another job somewhere your housemates didn’t know about?”

Dean looks down, absentmindedly reading the back of a sugar sachet. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to come by money when you’ve got the right tricks up your sleeve.”

And damn if that isn’t the most enlightening statement Castiel has heard all day. He decides to follow it up later with further questioning or a sarcastic remark, but for the time being he is distracted by the reappearance of their waiter, whom Castiel momentarily mistakes for an angel descending from heaven due to the contents of his hand.

“Black coffee,” he says, setting it down on the table, and Castiel picks it up, thanking the man before taking a long sip, closing his eyes. Dean watches him with faint amusement as the waiter leaves.

“You like coffee,” he observes.

Castiel opens his eyes, setting down the cup. “I need to,” he says. “Otherwise I couldn’t get by on as little sleep as I do.”

“How much is that?”

Castiel sips his coffee again. “On a good day, fifteen hours.”

Dean chuckles, and Castiel can’t hold in the edges of a smile.

A few minutes later, their food is brought out. Castiel pulls his plate towards him and picks up the burger, taking a large and appreciative bite. He used to care more about his diet, but he was forced to give that up for a life on the road. It hardly matters when he’s going to die young anyway.

In their last job, Dean showed that he’s more than capable of being an asset, but Castiel had met him when he was already halfway through solving it. This is still Dean’s first real case. “Tomorrow, once we’ve set up accommodation and found an appropriate car, we’ll get you some fake I.D.,” he says, taking another bite of his burger.

“Okay.” Dean picks up his own, frowning down at it before shrugging and taking a bite.

“Once that’s ready we’ll check out the crime scene. If we pose as FBI we should get access to the body as well, and the autopsy report. If it looks like our kind of thing we’ll go from there.” He stops talking, realising that his companion isn’t listening. “Dean.”

“Dude.” Dean is staring at the cheeseburger in his hands with wide eyes. He looks genuinely shocked.

“What is it?” Castiel puts his own burger onto his plate and leans over to look at Dean’s. “Did they mess up your order?”

“No, this…” Dean takes another bite. “This is  _awesome_ ,” he mumbles, a hand coming up to cover his mouth as he works to get the mouthful down.

Castiel blinks. Not really what he was expecting. “Yes? Have you never had bacon before?”

“Nope.” Dean swallows, still unable to take his eyes from his burger.

“Not once?” Castiel hopes he didn’t inadvertently break some personal rule of Dean’s. He assumes Dean wouldn’t have agreed to eat it if he had. “What kind of family do you have?”

“The crappy kind,” Dean says bitterly. Castiel is taken aback by the sudden anger in Dean’s voice. Whatever this is, it has nothing to do with bacon. He decides not to push it; he has no desire to share his own personal backstory with Dean, after all. They may be travelling together, but they’re not friends.

All he says is, “Well, enjoy your burger.”

“Mm.” Dean is wolfing it down gratuitously. It’s somewhat entertaining to watch. Castiel eventually starts eating again, notably slower than Dean.

An awkward silence passes between them. Dean isn’t the most graceful eater on the planet, but Castiel is content to just watch him anyway; he seems so overwhelmingly happy with his simple meal. The man’s parents probably raised him on salads and baked beans. It’s sad to see him finish it.

“Not much of an eater?” he ventures, and Dean pushes his empty plate away.

“Shut up.” He’s smiling. Castiel puts up his hands and finishes his coffee.

It’s half past ten by the time they finally leave the diner. Castiel was right; with his brain less sluggish after the caffeine, he can see it was a really bad idea to just park the Camry in plain sight. It’s a stolen car. Still, there is nothing else he can do. They can’t visit an auto dealer until tomorrow morning and they can’t carry everything they need on their own.

In spite of Castiel’s earlier statement, they don’t stop for the night. Maybe it was something to do with Dean’s ‘slow’ comment, but regardless he’s had his coffee so he keeps driving. Surprisingly, Dean doesn’t go to sleep. He is just as fresh as ever. Castiel envies his energy.

It takes less than two hours to get to Worthington, but it’s past midnight by the time they arrive. Dean uses his phone to find accommodation; the motel they settle on is cheap and rated poorly, but since it accepts 24-hour check-ins, Castiel isn’t going to complain.

After booking a room, they make short work of unloading their belongings. Castiel notices Dean unzip his bag to check on the spellbook.

“I’m going to dump the car,” he says at last, when it’s verging on one o’clock. They’ve finished moving everything into the motel; now, the sooner they get rid of the vehicle, the better. According to the flyer he took from the lobby, the city has an all-night bus service he can use to return here afterwards. All going well, he should be back in time for three or four hours of sleep. “You should get some rest; there’s no point in both of us going.”

Dean looks bemused. “Dude, you’ve been driving all day. I’ll do it.”

Castiel isn’t in the mood to argue, but he does it anyway. “Have you ever abandoned a stolen car? I don’t know you’ll take it far enough.”

“You’re kidding me.” Dean shakes his head. “Trust me, man, it’s better if I take it. I can drive, you know.”

The clock ticks over to a point when Castiel is officially too tired to care. “Well, if you say so,” he says dourly. “Just make sure it can’t be traced to us.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. Bye, Cas.”

Dean leaves.

“I’ll just…wait here then,” Castiel says aloud to the empty room. He pauses. “Thanks.”

He peels off the bandage around his head before he goes to sleep. The cut is smaller than he’d expected; he’s able to cover it with a large adhesive bandage after confirming that it’s not infected. After going through the process of getting ready for bed like a zombie, he realises he’d forgotten he was wearing Dean’s clothes.

Castiel has a lot to thank Dean for, even if he’s too tired to appreciate it. He doesn’t bother changing or even getting under the blankets. He slumps down onto the mattress of the first bed and is asleep in minutes.

 

 

 

 

* * *

When he wakes, it’s six o’clock, his back is stiff, there’s a musty smell and a music player somewhere on the other side of the wall is blasting ‘Party in the U.S.A.’.

It’s one of  _those_  days.

“Sleep well?”

Castiel sits up. Dean is hunched over the table on the other side of the room. He’s looking at him expectantly, and Castiel realises he has his laptop out. “Well enough,” he mutters, voice heavy with sleep.

A glance at the other bed shows it to be unmade; it did get slept in last night, but apparently, Dean Winchester doesn’t need more than three hours of rest to still be awake before Castiel. “What are you looking at?” he asks, running a hand through his hair and hauling himself off the bed.

“A lot.” Dean turns his computer screen towards Castiel as he comes over, shrugging off the hoodie. “I found a car last night,” he adds, sounding pleased with himself. “Not too far from here, either, and cheap as hell. You’ll love it.”

‘Cheap as hell’ doesn’t sound at all promising, but it’s more than he had when they arrived. “How would it go passing as an FBI vehicle?”

“Trust me, we get this baby on her feet, she’ll pass as anything.” Dean draws attention to the screen again. “I’ve been reading the local newspapers,” he says, changing the subject. “There’s a more detailed report on the Peter Watts incident. Still no pictures, but it’s got the name of the park, and I found us an address.”

Castiel peers down at the computer. “Impressive.” Did Dean even sleep at all last night? From the sound of things, he kept himself busy. “Thank you for dumping the car, by the way. You left before I got a chance to say it.”

Pulling the computer back to himself, Dean shrugs. “Don’t mention it. Better me than you.”

Wondering what Dean means by that, Castiel says, “Where’d you end up leaving the car?”

Dean just smirks. “Trust me, the cops aren’t connecting it to us any time soon.”

Castiel pauses, waiting for Dean to elaborate. When he doesn’t, he clears his throat. “Where did you actually leave it?”

“Wyoming.”

Castiel gives up. 

The motel doesn’t offer a breakfast service, so they visit another diner for food. Dean’s enthusiasm with regards to eating is notably greater than it was last night. He responds to the offer with a, “Dude,  _yes_ ,” and proceeds to pack his computer away, leaving it on his bed while the two of them head out.

“After we’ve gotten a car we’ll find a print shop,” Castiel says, sitting down opposite Dean at a table next to a window.

“For the I.D.,” Dean guesses, picking up the menu in the middle of the table and turning it over in his hands.

“I have a badge you can use, but we’ll need your picture on a card. It shouldn’t take too long—then you’re going to need a suit.”

“Awesome.” Dean seems to be more interested in inspecting the menu; an intense frown is set into his face as he turns the pages. Castiel waits for him to look up again.

“The first things we need to do are check out the crime scene and get a look at the body. Once we’ve done that then we can start trying to figure out what we’re dealing with, see if it’s a matter for hunters or not.”

Dean finally puts the menu down. “Any ideas so far?”

“I don’t want to bias myself with premature theories; ‘mauled’ could mean almost anything and not all of it is our kind of thing.” Castiel has a glance over the menu as well. “What about you? You get a lot of dead bodies in your line of work?”

Dean smiles darkly. “More than you might think.”

Castiel orders coffee with bacon and eggs on toast, and Dean orders a slice of apple pie. After its arrival, Castiel doesn’t get a proper sentence out of him for the rest of breakfast.

* * *

 

It’s half past six when they finish eating, and almost seven by the time they’re ready to leave. Castiel finally showers and changes out of Dean’s clothes, making a note to clean them before he gives them back. He doesn’t put on his suit just yet; it won’t be needed until later. Instead, he opts for jeans again.

They don’t have a car to use, but Dean seems to know exactly where it is that they’re going; they take a bus again. Castiel is already getting sick of public transport. Dean is too, but he’s made it quite clear that no methods of automotive transportation are good enough for him. Rich, coming from somebody who apparently never left his room. Maybe his hatred of cars is why.

Castiel doubts it; he seems more than pleased about whatever vehicle he located last night.

“What kind of car did you say it was?”

“It’s a Chevy,” Dean says, eyes still fixed out the window.

A Chevy. That sounds promising enough, although not very specific. Still, this car, whatever it may be, is only a starting point; Castiel isn’t the type to buy anything on a whim. He’ll have to look at some other vehicles before deciding.

Rather than going to a proper auto dealer, the place Dean takes them to is a second-hand car yard. Only a few vehicles are visible from the front, and none of them are in great condition. It reminds him of Bobby’s house.

There’s also nothing here that was made after the 1980s. Castiel wonders how Dean found this place.

“One of these?” he ventures, glancing around at the misshapen heaps of metal.

“What? Hell no. It’s out the back.”

“Where’s the owner of this establishment?”

Dean points to the door of the building. “In there, I guess. He wasn’t up for talking when I came last night so I let myself in and did some snooping.”

“At one o’clock in the morning? Why?”

“We needed a car.” Dean looks at him. “And I’m not much of a sleeper. Figured I’d make myself useful.”

“There’s medicine for that,” Castiel says, not entirely certain what to say in response. He’s not the best person to be giving lectures on the importance of sleep. Dean doesn’t seem to mind—or rather, he makes no comment on the matter at all, so Castiel drops it. Dean raps on the door.

A bespectacled man with an impressive beard greets them more than a minute later. It’s only half past seven but he doesn’t seem displeased by the presence of customers; if anything, he’s surprised—judging by the state of his shop, he doesn’t get a lot of them. Castiel hopes this car of Dean’s is worth it.

Dean is notable for the lack of specifics in his greeting. If he really did break in last night, he neglects to mention it, or the car he’s so set on buying.

“Where did you say you were from?” he asks, suspicious.

“Ah, Illinois,” Castiel says, not trusting Dean to give a false location. “I travel and lot and I’ve been having some car troubles; I finally had to sell my last thing for scrap. I just need something to get me back on the road and my friend here is helping me out.”

The man shrugs. “Got plenty of stuff capable of doing that, although I’ve got to warn you, there’s nothing here that’d win prizes for the way it looked.”

“It’s fine.” Castiel casts Dean a sideways glance as they’re led around the building to the parking lot behind it. What had Dean said before? ‘Get this baby on her feet’. Judging by that, and the look of this place, it doesn’t sound like Dean’s Mystery Chevy is going to turn an awful lot of heads.

“What about that one?”

Castiel stops short. So, surprisingly, does the owner, and both of them stare. It’s rather obvious which car they’re looking at, because none of the others gleam quite like this one does.

It’s black, and despite its size it’s far more imposing than Castiel’s last car could have hoped to be. In fact, it’s everything the Patrol wasn’t— _everything_. Shining silver rims that look more capable of ploughing through concrete than a bullbar, sleek in all the ways it shouldn’t be. It’s the car that makes people lock their doors when it stops next to them at the traffic lights.

It’s quite obviously different from the rest of the cars in the yard. While this one is tucked away at the end of a row of dull, uncleaned vehicles that only look good for parts, it’s also the only one there that’s cleaned. In fact, its condition  _looks_  near impeccable, like it’s just been painted and serviced. It’s quite out of place, amongst the rest of the cars.

Surprisingly, the price card under the windscreen is actually lower than most of the others, at just four thousand. The owner doesn’t, apparently, see much value in it.

“That’s…” The owner trails off, looking at Dean, who spoke last. A smug look is plastered on Dean’s face, quite obviously directed at Castiel. “That’s, uh, the Chevy Impala. ‘67. Haven’t had anyone ask about it in years, it’s just been sitting there.”

“Strange, it’s in pretty good condition.” Castiel is looking straight at Dean while he speaks.

“I, ah, had it cleaned the other day. Y’know, just in case someone came around.” He scratches the back of his neck, looking puzzled. “It runs just fine—better than fine. The mileage is a bit high,” he adds as an afterthought.

“You mind if we take a look?” Dean asks, already making his way towards it. Castiel follows him.

“Yeah, yeah, knock yourself out.”

“What did you do?” Castiel hisses as soon as the two of them are standing opposite one another on either side of the hood.

“What?” Dean says, sounding affronted. “I found the car and I told you about it.”

“There’s something wrong with this picture,” Castiel says. “Nobody sells a vintage car in this condition for four thousand, so what did you do?”

“The guy’s been letting it rust for years. He just wants to get rid of it.”

“I don’t trust you,” Castiel says, voice stiff. There’s no rust on the car at all, and Dean knows that.

At this, Dean goes silent for a long moment, and the two men stand opposite one another, eyes narrowed.

Dean is the first to break the silence. “Dude, I saw a deal, jumped on it, and this…” Dean touches the bonnet. “ _This_  is the car you want. This is…a feat of human ingenuity for the  _sake_  of human ingenuity. It’s intricate and it’s beautiful, and you won’t see anything like it again.”

Castiel knows about cars—it’s essential, in his life. He knows the way a carburettor blends air and fuel and he knows the way an engine fits together. He’s quite capable of fixing whatever basic problems affect a vehicle, but until right now, he’s never felt any kind of connection to one.

And he is feeling one right now, to this strange 1967 Chevrolet Impala that Dean has so unceremoniously stumbled upon. He doesn’t understand what Dean means about human ingenuity—he doesn’t understand most of what Dean says—but at the very least, he thinks he gets it, up to a point. He has no idea why.

Either way, it’s obvious he’s still not as taken by it as Dean. The man can’t seem to pull his eyes from it.

Castiel opens the hood just as the owner is coming up beside them, still scratching his beard thoughtfully while looking over the car. “You two want to take a look at any of the others?” he asks, in a voice that suggests he doesn’t expect them to. He’s right.

“I’m alright, actually,” Castiel says, bending down to get a better look at the state of the engine. Half an hour later, they’re driving out, and the car is theirs.

* * *

 

“This one here.” The medical examiner, an older woman with dark grey hair, stops them in front of the appropriate drawer. “Although I’ll tell you now, there isn’t a lot left to see.”

“Can you get us a copy of the autopsy report?” Castiel asks, glancing between her and Dean, the latter of whom now has a suit and badge identifying him as a federal agent. He seems out of place in the role, although he looks plausible enough now. For the most part, he lets Castiel do the talking, eyes scanning the room with a calculative expression.

“In a minute, sure.” She opens the draw, and Dean and Castiel step back as she pulls the body from its cold chamber. It’s covered with a blue sheet, and Castiel waits for a nod of affirmation from the medical examiner before he pulls it back to reveal Watts’ face.

It’s deathly pale, as is to be expected, but it looks more or less in tact with the exception of a long scar across his left cheek, which must have been at least a week old at the time of death. “I assume you’ve read the police report,” the medical examiner says, pulling the sheet back the rest of the way to reveal what is left of Watts. “They arrived on the scene about quarter past five yesterday morning. By my calculation, he was killed some time around midnight, maybe a little earlier.”

“Poor bastard,” Dean says, eyes moving over the remains on the table before them.

‘Poor bastard’ is the only real way to say it. Simply, Peter Watts is a mess; even after his autopsy, there’s very little of his torso left to be stitched back together. A gaping hole resides in his middle, with what look like teeth marks on every visible section of skin, and huge chunks of flesh have been torn from his abdomen and limbs; whatever did this had quite obviously been eating.

Five years ago Castiel would have gagged. Ten and he would have vomited. As it is, a lump rises in his throat at the sight before him. There are countless supernatural monsters that eat the flesh of humans, but that isn’t the most concerning part; it’s that whatever is responsible for Watts’ death, whether it’s supernatural or just a wild animal on the rampage, hasn’t been found yet. Nothing has been found in or around the park that could have been capable of this, which means ‘it’ is still around. They need to visit the park as soon as possible.

The medical examiner goes to collect the autopsy reports, leaving Dean and Castiel alone with the body.

“Any ideas?” Dean asks, bending down to examine the man’s side.

“Something small and vicious,” Castiel says, looking at the size of a singular bite mark on Watts’ leg, just below the knee. “Judging by the radius of the jaw and the positioning of the wounds, I’d say something about the size of a cocker spaniel.” He gestures to the wound he’s examining. “It used its teeth here, probably caused him to fall over. Once it had him on his back he was finished.”

“Not a canine,” Dean adds. “The jaw shape is wrong.”

Castiel nods in agreement, frowning. “So, something that uses its teeth, and it’s probably not bipedal. Any signs of hair or fur?” he mutters, looking over the body once more. There doesn’t appear to be any.

“Nothing of the sort,” the medical examiner says, returning. She hands a small folder to Castiel, who takes it, opening it and tilting his head. “The official conclusion is animal attack, probably a stray dog, but the truth is I have no sane idea of what killed this man.”

“Any insane ones?” Dean asks. She looks at him.

“Well, Agent, my money’s on the rabbit from Holy Grail,” she says dryly. Dean looks confused, but Castiel interjects before he can question her.

“Thanks for your help, ma’am,” he says, closing the folder and holding it up. “Would you mind making a copy of this for us?”

“You’re holding one,” she says. “Just figure this case out. I’ve never seen a body like this one on my table and I don’t want to ever again.”

“There wasn’t any rabbit in the Holy Grail,” Dean says as they leave the morgue.

“You’ve never seen  _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ ,” Castiel observes, and Dean’s frown deepens. He sighs. “It’s a movie—a comedy.”

“I haven’t seen a lot of movies.”

“Well, neither have I, but…” He shakes his head. “The rabbit, it kills three people.”

“I thought you said this was a comedy.”

Castiel doesn’t answer him. They reach the Impala.

As cars go, it’s exceptional; even the excessive fuel consumption does little to dampen the appreciation Castiel has for the car he just bought. It’s over forty years old but it runs like it was made yesterday, and wherever it goes, it turns heads. He doubts he’ll ever say it, but Dean is right; the Patrol was not a hunter’s car. This is a hunter’s car, and it’s one hell of a car.

At least, Castiel will confirm it is when Dean actually lets him drive it. He’d asked to drive it away from where they bought it, and since he’d found the car at what was apparently his own great expense, Castiel had humoured him. It’s now almost one o’clock, however, and Dean is still the one behind the wheel. Castiel tries not to let it bother him; even though he paid for the car, Dean is a competent enough driver, and he’s obviously the bigger vehicle enthusiast.

Dean gets into the driver’s seat again, and Castiel doesn’t argue, just joins him on the passenger side. “We need to get a copy of the police report,” he says, opening the autopsy file and looking over it again.

“I can do that,” Dean says, starting the car. “Then we’ll check out the park, look for evidence.”

“And interview the family.” Castiel grabs his notebook from the glove box, scribbling down a few facts.

“Talking to the jogger who found the guy couldn’t hurt either,” Dean adds thoughtfully. “See if he remembers anything else.”

Castiel nods in agreement. “Park first,” he says. “Whatever attacked Watts is either still there or has a way in and out that nobody else knows about. Presumably the police have it fenced off now but the sooner we take a look at the place, the better.”

“Yeah.” Dean drums his fingers on the steering wheel once. “I’ve been thinking; there aren’t any monsters I know of that are the size we estimated, and I know more than you—no offense—so either we’ve gotten the size wrong or this is something new.”

“New, or not seen by a hunter in a hell of a long time.” Castiel ponders it. “Well, whatever the size, it was vicious enough to tear that boy apart.”

“It’s scary what some things will do when they’re hungry,” Dean says grimly.

* * *

 

“My name is Special Agent Sawyer, this is my partner, Special Agent Dickinson; we’re from the FBI.”

It’s a spiel that Castiel has said a hundred times before bar the partner. He’s starting to think that the act of having a partner somehow makes it more believable; there are enough cop shows on T.V. that people have come to expect it. The two Feds in suits, coming to investigate the mysterious murder. People want to believe it, so they do. Hunters have their work cut out for them.

Still, even after the police let them through the perimeter and into the crime scene, there’s almost nothing for them to see—nothing that tells them something they don’t already know.

They can see where the body was found. The spot was marked before Watts was taken away, although they could have found it without, judging by the sheer amount of dried blood still present on the grass.

“Well, that is really weird,” Dean says, bending down and touching the grass beside the markers.

“What is?” Castiel’s eyes have been darting across the park ever since they arrived, trying to spot anything else out of place. The rest of the park seems ordinary enough; trees, grass, a network of paths running throughout with a deep pond at the centre. At this, he turns his gaze back to where Dean is crouching.

“The blood.” Dean looks around again, searching. “It’s all near here so where he was first attacked is probably also where he died. There’s no trail to indicate he was dragged or ran or even which direction  _it_  came from.”

Castiel crouches down, looking over the park from a lower vantage point. “He was found right next to the footpath,” he says. “Let’s say he got jumped and he ran. If he stuck to the paving and the thing followed him, it wouldn’t leave footprints.”

“Which begs the question of where it came from and where it went when it was done.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow, trying to think. “We find that, we find the monster.”

“We need more information,” Dean agrees as they straighten up. “I’ll get the police report once we’re back at the motel.”

“I’ll have a talk with the family.”  Castiel checks the time. “We should probably stop and eat, too. While we have the chance.”

Dean looks interested. “Yeah. Get me some pie,” he says, making Castiel roll his eyes.

Their search of the rest of the park turns up nothing. Nothing important, although a singular duck wandering away from the pond approaches them for food before giving Dean what Castiel swears is a dirty glare and leaving them again. It’s not until they’re making their way back to the car that anything worthy of note occurs.

“I’m sorry, Miss Bates, but you can’t go in there. This place is off-limits to the press.”

Castiel lets the police tape he and Dean have just ducked underneath drop, straightening up with a frown. There’s a young woman, probably in her early twenties, blonde hair tied in a neat bun with a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles balanced on a lightly freckled nose. She’s talking to an older police sergeant. They appear to be arguing—at least, the woman does. The officer is being surprisingly patient.

“We haven’t publicised what killed that poor boy because nobody’s been allowed to know.” Her voice falters slightly. “Why is it being kept a secret? The people have a right to know whatever it is you’re hiding. It could happen to somebody else.”

“This whole situation is under control,” the officer says calmly. “The park’s been fenced off to prevent anyone from getting in the way of an ongoing investigation and we’re confident that this was an isolated incident.”

She hasn’t answered the reporter’s question, and she calls her out on it. “Why?” she demands. “The body’s been taken away, your people have looked over it a dozen times, so why is it still fenced off if you’re so sure it’s safe now? What are you hiding?” She points a finger at Dean and Castiel. “Why are the Feds here?”

Castiel is about to step in when the officer starts to lose her patience. “Regi, I’m going to have to ask you to leave before I escort you off this lot,” she snaps, irritated. The reporter, Regi Bates, glares at her, but doesn’t continue to argue. “This is a restricted area. When and only when we declare it open to the public again,  _then_  you can come in with your camera and your red pen. It’s a matter of your own safety.”

Bates scowls but she turns away. “Whatever you say.” With a final look over Dean and Castiel, she departs, stalking back to a white Honda against the curb.

The officer picks up her walkie-talkie. “We’re going to have to up the security tonight,” she says boredly. “Regi was here.”

“You know her?” Castiel asks as he and Dean move to join her. She turns to face them, snorting.

“Regina Bates,” she says, shaking her head. “One of those conspiracy theorist types. She’s always sneaking her way into crime scenes. Usually convinced some huge secret’s being hidden and it’s her job to find out what. It’s the movies you get these days, I keep saying it.”

“And she’s never been arrested?” Dean asks, raising his eyebrows.

“We’ve tried, plenty of times.” She laughs dryly. “But you need evidence to convict. Everyone in the force knows what she does but we’ve never been able to catch her in the act. Gotta keep letting her go.”

“She sounded pretty distressed,” Dean goes on, staring in the direction her car went. “You think she’s going to try again tonight?”

“Reasonable assumption, unless she hears about a triple homicide on the other side of town. She won’t settle down until she gets a look, but you both saw the place; there’s nothing to see. Not anymore.”

“Apparently not.” Castiel exchanges a look with Dean.

“We’re coming back here tonight, aren’t we?” Dean asks when they get back into the Impala. Dean takes the driver’s seat again; Castiel’s thoughts are elsewhere, and he doesn’t bother arguing.

“Yes,” he says as they drive away. “I don’t think there’s anything left in the park that can help in our investigation, but there’s something wrong here.”

“Alright, shoot.”

“Supernatural or not, if it eats then it’s corporeal. If it’s corporeal then it can’t have left the park without physically  _leaving_  it.”

“You think it’s still there?”

“I think if it left, it left in the middle of the night when nobody was around to see it and if it did, it’s probably hiding somewhere nearby.”

“It’s nocturnal,” Dean points out. “It attacked during the night and somebody would have seen it if it was out during the day.”

“So what did it do  _last_  night?” Castiel rubs his eyes, trying to think. “No more bodies showed up like the first one. Maybe it wasn’t as hungry, or maybe it found some wildlife. We need to go snooping around the suburb.”

“I did notice one thing that was weird about that place,” Dean says suddenly, making Castiel look up. “Didn’t think about it at first.”

“What?”

“Ducks are pretty social birds,” Dean points out. “So why was the duck that came up to us the only one in the park?”

* * *

 

Further investigation concludes that the duck did not, in fact, kill Peter Watts. Still, Dean’s observation does seem out of place, and Castiel can’t make himself forget about it. After they buy lunch—Dean convinces him to buy more pie for him to take back to the motel—they split up; Dean stays behind to devour his prize and read the police files while Castiel heads out again to keep searching.

His first port of call is the home of the jogger who found Watts. Apparently, he runs through the park every morning. Castiel asks about when he found the body, what he saw, if anything seemed out of the ordinary. All the usual questions which tell him absolutely nothing. It’s only when he’s about to leave that he decides to go ahead and ask him about the ducks.

The man frowns. “Uh, yeah, there are always loads of ducks around that pond. Why?”

Castiel nods slowly. “Just curious.”

He checks the time when he leaves the place, surprised to discover that it’s almost five; too late to visit any more witnesses and still to early to return to the park. He’ll have to head back to the motel and see what Dean’s found, although the fact that he hasn’t called or texted implies that there’s nothing too groundbreaking.

As suspected, the Impala is amazing to drive, even though he’s only driving it because Dean is back at the motel. It doesn’t feel forty years old at all—there’s something very wrong about the price he got it for.

He can’t shake the feeling that he’s encroaching on Dean’s property. It’s ridiculous, of course; Castiel paid for it, the Impala is technically his car. Regardless, the feeling is there.

He doesn’t go straight back to the motel. Instead, he stops at a local café on the way back, needing the time to mull things over. Not to mention get away from Dean for a little longer. He’s not used to being with any individual for such an extended period, and Dean is a trying person to live with. The man is an enigma; Castiel never knows what he’s thinking.

The café isn’t crowded; it doesn’t take long for him to be served. He orders a coffee and brings his laptop in to take advantage of the Wi-Fi. He really does need to invest in a smartphone.

There are three emails in his inbox; one is a request to renew his Biggerson’s membership, which he archives for later. The next is a reminder to get a dental check, which he ignores.

The third is from Dean, and it’s from twenty minutes ago. Frowning, he clicks the link. It’s a copy of the police report on the Watts case, as promised. “That was fast,” he mutters, opening the file.

His coffee arrives as he’s reading, and he drinks from it absentmindedly while his eyes flick over the pages on his screen. It’s hard to focus when he’s running on as little sleep as he is, although the coffee begins to help as he reaches the end. He makes himself read it a second time.

By now, he and Dean are more or less familiar with the logistics of the case. The report isn’t a complete waste of time, however; it gives him the names of Watts’s family members, and even an address. It’s their task for tomorrow, depending on what happens in the park tonight.

He calls Dean. They need to touch base.

“I think it ate the ducks,” he says before Dean has a chance to speak.

“You think it ate the ducks.”

“Or it scared them off. It doesn’t matter either way; the ducks are important.”

“I can see you’ve had a very productive afternoon,” Dean says. “Did you get my email?”

“I just finished reading it. We need to talk to the family, figure out why Peter Watts was in the park that night at all. It’s unusual so it might be relevant.”

“Fair enough.” There’s a muffled sound of keys being hit. “Alright, the ducks. Fill me in.”

“According to the jogger the pond is usually full of them. Watts dies, and suddenly they disappear. There’s a connection, I just can’t be sure what it is.”

Dean pauses, considering this. “You reckon the pond is key here? That is where all the footpaths in the park meet. And it’s where the ducks live.”

“There’s a chance. We need to find out tonight.”

“Awesome. And will this involve getting wet?”

“I sincerely hope not,” Castiel says. “We’ll need to be careful not to get caught, too,” he adds. “The police think we’re Feds but if they see us in the park at night they’ll want to know why. It’s best not let them get suspicious.”

“What are we going to do about that woman—Bates, or whatever?” There are more sounds of tapping keys from Dean’s end.

“The police are on the lookout for her,” Castiel agrees dryly. “They’ll be harder to avoid. We should keep watch for her as well. We don’t know for sure that the park is safe yet. She may be putting herself in danger.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“Hmm.”

They hang up after confirming that neither has any more to add, Castiel saying that he’ll pack up and head back to the motel. He decides to wait and finish his coffee, fingers tapping the side of his computer for a moment. He opens Google.

 _dean winchester_.

The first result he gets is, surprisingly, a Wikipedia page. He clicks it.

There isn’t a great deal of information in the article; not even a picture or a birthday. Castiel’s eyes narrow, sitting back in his chair.

 

> **_Dean Winchester_ ** _is an American radio personality and host of independent talk show Supernatural. He is based in Lawrence, Kansas, although podcasts of the show are available on the show’s website._

Apparently, the wider community knows even less about Dean Winchester than Castiel does. He clicks on the link to the show’s page.

This article is far more helpful, and he’s still reading it when he finishes his coffee. The show has been running for over five years. When it started, it was only half an hour per day before gradually running for longer periods as its popularity increased. The website opened almost four years ago, and podcasts started becoming available shortly afterwards.

And, of course, it’s sparked plenty of controversy, despite getting ‘mainly positive reviews’.

Castiel bookmarks the page and goes back to the search results. Underneath the two Wiki articles is the link Castiel is more interested in; the website itself.

It has a relatively simple layout. The background is some kind of misty forest with a brief introduction to the show and a list of links on the sidebar, navigating to various aspects of the site.

As well as being a host for the podcasts and Dean’s blog, the website is a trove of monster facts. It looks as though all the information Dean gives out on air, he also posts here in a relevant section. There are pages upon pages to be found of lore on every supernatural creature under the sun. Some of them Castiel is familiar with, like vampires and ghosts. Others are more obscure; the pagan gods’ sections occupy at least fifty percent of the pages alone. Castiel doesn’t understand how he’s never come across the website before in his researching.

He goes to Dean’s blog. The most recent entry is from half an hour ago.

Castiel curses out loud. “What the hell?”

 

> _I’ve had a lot of messages over the last day expressing concern about why I’ve had to cancel my broadcasts. Firstly I’d just like to say that I’m not in trouble. I’ve left Lawrence at short notice with a colleague who specialises in tracking down monsters and protecting people from them. I’ll most likely be travelling a lot in the future. Don’t expect new broadcasts any time soon, but I’ll still be keeping you posted about my progress here. As usual, it’s always safe to contact me if you have a story you need to share or a question that needs answering._

Castiel’s brow furrows as he reads the rest of the entry, his expression brooding. After the first paragraph, Dean goes on to talk about some research he’s been doing about some Mesoamerican deity Castiel would have been interested in reading on any other day. He closes the computer; he’s read enough.

* * *

 

It’s hard to stay angry for the entire drive back to the motel, and even if it weren’t, Castiel can’t say that he’s seriously angry—or even surprised, given Dean’s tendencies. Dean only agreed to stop broadcasting. Technically, he hasn’t even agreed to that; he’s just putting it on hold while he’s gone. Even though Castiel is the more experienced hunter, Dean is operating as his own agent within their partnership.

The thing that really angers him isn’t that Dean did update his website but what he actually wrote. ‘A colleague who specialises in tracking down monsters and protecting people from them’, he had said. An unusually tactful way of putting it, but anyone who knows anything about hunters will understand that Dean’s ‘colleague’ is one. Dean just publicised the fact that he and Castiel are now hunters working cases together. That was reckless, and it’s not okay. When he finally walks through the door to their room, his face is set into a scowl.

“You updated your website.”

“Yeah, I updated my website. What of it?”

“Why?” Castiel puts the keys to the Impala in the pocket of his trench coat, moving to leave his bag on the foot of his bed. Dean is seated at the room’s small wooden table, a beer on one hand and his laptop in front of him, but upon Castiel’s arrival, he pushes the chair out, sitting back with his arms crossed.

“Wasn’t aware that I needed your permission.” Dean’s head cocks slightly, his expression challenging, and Castiel wants to shake him.

“You became a hunter and then posted it on the Internet,” Castiel snaps, already losing his patience. “There’s no reason to do that. It doesn’t benefit  _anyone_. What were you thinking?” He’s standing over Dean, staring him down. Dean exhales softly and his lips form a thin line.

“Don’t try to scare me, Cas,” he says, “it doesn’t work.” He closes the computer—Castiel takes a moment to notice that it was open to the now-familiar website—and pushes it away, picking up his beer bottle and drinking from it without taking his eyes off Castiel.

He backs off slightly, because Dean is right. Castiel is good at scaring people but he’s a fool for even trying with Dean.

“Dean…” Castiel gives him a pensive once-over. “I’m not here to perch on your shoulder; if you want to keep your website running then I couldn’t stop you even if I wanted to. But I’ve been a hunter for years; listen to me, for once. You can’t afford to tell anyone what you are, even the people who don’t know you.”

Dean looks like he’s about to interject, but Castiel cuts him off. “It’s one thing to do it for other people. You want to be the public’s shoulder to cry on, go right ahead, but you have to trust me; don’t let yourself to be known, to anyone, because it will  _always_  come back and bite you in the ass.”

For once, Dean is silent. “In this life, you can’t afford to get personal,” Castiel says, not unkindly. “It’s never about you, it’s about them; Nate Patrickson and the rest of the people out there trying to live their lives. I thought you got that.”

“I don’t live this life, Cas.” Dean stands up, brushing past him and dropping his beer bottle into the bin. It clunks as it hits the bottom. “I’m not a hunter—you are. My life didn’t change just because you dropped into it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dean rounds on him. “I didn’t come here to help you,” he says sharply. “I didn’t even come here to gank that son of a bitch hiding in the park. I came here to do what I was put on this earth to do, and if I can help a few people along the way, well, that’s freaking awesome, but I am not doing this for you, and I am not your friend.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, just watches him closely for a few more seconds, waiting.

Dean walks past him again to pick up his computer and stuff it into his duffel bag. “I’m going out. Let me use the car.”

“It’s my car.”

“Like hell it is.” Dean slams the door behind him.

It’s an argument that came out of nowhere, and it takes a moment for Castiel to realise that it happened. He stands there for a moment, unmoving. He doesn’t try to follow Dean—he won’t take the Impala without the key, and he’s made it quite clear they shouldn’t be spending any more time together than necessary. If Dean doesn’t show up by the time Castiel is ready to go, he’ll just leave without him. He doesn’t need him.

He approaches the window anyway, pulling back the curtain slightly and looking outside with a squint. Dean is nowhere to be seen.

Scowling, Castiel sits back down on the bed. Whatever he’s done to upset Dean, it’s clearly hit a nerve. Maybe it isn’t about the blog; Dean started to get angry about the fact that Castiel called him a hunter. He hasn’t made it a secret that he dislikes hunters in general. Even so, it seems unusual; Dean isn’t exactly the sensitive type.

He changes out of his suit and distracts himself by cleaning the guns. Their late night stroll in the park needs to be an armed one. Then, unable to resist, he gets out his computer again.

The blog hasn’t changed since Castiel saw it at the café. However, a click to the comments page shows that a dozen people have left questions and remarks on the latest entry. Some are about the deity, the Quetzalcoatl, but others are about Dean.  _Who’s this colleague of yours? Where are you now? Why did you have to leave with him? Are you okay?_ —all intrusive, meaningless questions that Dean absolutely cannot afford to answer. Castiel closes the page and goes back to the main website. When Dean comes back they’ll broach the subject again—and he’s certain that Dean  _will_  come back. For all his faults, this isn’t something that he would just miss. Until then, Castiel has more important things to worry about.

* * *

 

When Castiel reaches the park, it’s quarter to twelve and, apart from the police car pulled against the footpath, the street is empty.

Dean didn’t return to the motel, and Castiel wishes he weren’t surprised. He drives around the perimeter of the park before leaving the car on the side of the road as well, on the opposite edge to the police cruiser. He’s reluctant to leave it so close to the crime scene, but he needs it accessible in case he has to make a run for it.

It’s quieter than the Patrol was, but the Impala’s engine is loud. He leaves his headlights off but it feels like a redundant action. Anyone could have heard it coming minutes before seeing it. When he makes his way into the park itself, he’s more careful to be silent. As far as he can tell from his standpoint, the cops haven’t noticed him. He intends to keep it that way.

Castiel works plenty of jobs at night. The experience has long since lost its novelty, and the difference between the park now and the park that afternoon is lost on him. He makes his way down the concrete footpath to the centre of the park, the almost-full moon casting enough light to make it easy to see. It’s unfortunate; the increased visibility goes both ways, after all.

He’s about to reach the pond when he halts. He’s not alone.

The figure by the water silhouettes the pond’s reflection of the moonlight, making it larger than it is. At first, Castiel thinks it’s one of the cops, and his hand instinctively goes towards the pocket of his jacket where he keeps his FBI badge. Then the man turns to face him, and he relaxes. A little.

“You sure took your sweet time,” Dean says.

“You’re too loud,” Castiel hisses. Dean quirks an eyebrow.

“I can’t see anything else in this pond except a few little fish,” he says, his voice notably softer.

“How did you even get here?” Castiel says, ignoring the statement. He could have made that observation himself.

“Walked.” Dean continues his status report unabated. “There are three cops here, and one’s in their car. The other two are patrolling the park. I don’t expect them to be back here for another ten minutes, if their pattern stays the same. Pretty lousy cops, really.”

Castiel frowns but doesn’t comment. If Dean has already scoped the place it’ll save him the trouble. He’s reluctant to just take his word for it, though; he has no reason to trust in Dean’s judgement. “Alright, lets make this quick then.” He hasn’t used a torch yet, since such a thing would instantly alert the police to their presence, but he gets one out of his pocket now, clicking it on warily and directing the beam into the water. Murky grey is all that greets them.

“Any idea what we’re actually looking for?” Dean looks around in all directions before following Castiel’s gaze to the surface of the water.

“None at all. You?”

“Not yet.”

A quick search around the perimeter of the deep pool returns nothing, and Castiel turns the torch off, still staring at the motionless surface. Maybe there is nothing here at all. They could have missed something. He doesn’t feel convinced; something feels off here that goes beyond the simple time of day. He can’t pin down what it is. Neither, apparently, can Dean.

He realises what it is a few seconds later, when his circling of the pond brings him to a low-growing shrub positioned next to the footpath. He catches Dean’s eye, and he notices it too.

Castiel clears his throat. “What do you want?”

The shallow breathing Castiel had detected stops short. Rolling his eyes, Castiel reaches around the side, his hand closing around solid flesh before the person hiding can evade it, and a moment later he pulls the unresisting figure of Regina Bates out from her poorly-concealed hiding place.

“Your stealth could use a bit of work,” he observes, voice low.

“You’re not FBI,” she says back, forceful but equally quiet.

“We get that a lot.” Dean halts beside Castiel. “Why are you following us?”

“I’m a reporter.” Bates doesn’t attempt to run, but it’s obvious she’s more afraid than she lets on. Her whole body is poised to bolt and her eyes are panicked like she can’t decide between fight and flight. There’s a small notepad in one hand, and she’s gripping it tightly.

“I can see that,” Dean says. “Let’s cut the crap, okay? This is a crime scene. The cops told you this afternoon.”

“You’re here.”

“We’re Feds.”

“Is that why you’re hiding from the police?” There’s an obvious lump in her throat, but Bates stands her ground, and Castiel releases his hold on her arm. “Great job with that, by the way. Interfering with their radio frequencies—don’t even think they’ve noticed yet. I don’t know how you did it but it’s pretty illegal. Should make things easier, at least.”

 Castiel falters, looking at Dean, who shrugs. He turns back to Bates. “Why do you care so much? About this case?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Bates swallows. “I told you, I’m a reporter. If the police aren’t going to tell me how Peter died then I’m going to find out myself.”

“You’re breaking the law to do it.”

“And we’re back to square one again.” She looks around uneasily, tucking her notepad into an inner pocket of the coat she’s wearing.

Dean cuts in, sounding frustrated. “I think we’ve established that nobody’s actually allowed to be here, so are we going to stand here talking all night? The cops can’t communicate but if one of them finds us we’re all headed for a holding cell.”

Castiel has to admit that he has a point. They’ve already been in one place longer than is safe. Beside him, Dean directs his gaze back to the pond, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You should go, Bates.” He turns to look at her again. “This place isn’t safe for you.”

“Thanks, but I’m not going until I find the thing that killed Peter.” Bates puffs herself up. She’s a head shorter than Dean but she doesn’t seem to care. “I was right; there is something in this park, and you two know something about it. You’re going to help me.”

Dean laughs. “Or what? You’ll call the police? It wasn’t a suggestion. If you don’t leave right now—”

“Stop right there.”

“Shit,” Castiel breathes.

He turns, automatically moving to put himself between Regi and the police officer that has suddenly appeared behind them. His hand instinctively reaches for his gun, but be doesn’t draw it. The last thing they need is for bullets to start firing.

He lifts his hands above his head, taking a moment to look over the young man before him. He’s tall and lanky, with a mess of dark blond hair covering his head. Castiel doesn’t recognise him from when they visited earlier.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is loud and forceful, at odds with the hushed whispers they’ve been sharing until now. Castiel slowly reaches for his inner jacket pocket, eyes falling on the pistol the officer has already drawn. Castiel is glad he hasn’t taken out his own.

“Will you relax please, officer?” he says with as much confidence. It wasn’t his original plan, but this cop will have been informed about the FBI’s supposed involvement in the case. “We’re from the—”

“Oh my god, I am so sorry.” His expression utterly mortified, Dean holds up his hands. “Please, let my friends go, this is all my fault.”

“Who—”

“ _Dean—_ ”

“This isn’t what it looks like, officer.” Sounding a little more sanguine, Dean offers an uneasy smile. “I think we’re—we’re all in danger. You have to be careful, there’s—I don’t know yet, but there’s something more going here than you think. We’re here to help.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to be quiet.” The cop looks between the three of them, thrown off by the contrast in their responses. Castiel knows his type; his youth will be to their advantage.

“My apologies, officer.” Castiel glares at Dean, wondering what the hell he thinks he’s doing. Dean continues before Castiel can.

“You don’t understand,” he insists. “I’m a professional—”

“ _Shut up_.”

Dean goes silent, holding up his hands in apparent submission. He looks desperate and on the verge of tears, but Castiel sees an increasingly familiar smirk hidden in his features.

“The three of you are trespassing on a crime scene.” The man is pointing his gun at Dean now, and Castiel’s throat tightens. Out of the three of them, he’s the only real hunter; Dean talks big but he wouldn’t be here if Castiel hadn’t brought him on this hunt. He’s Castiel’s responsibility.

“Please let me explain—” Castiel begins. The cop turns his head towards him, and the gun wavers. Castiel frowns.

“You can explain back at the station,” the officer says dryly. “I know exactly why you’re here.” He gestures towards Regi, who visibly shrinks away. “You think I don’t know who she is? They mentioned you might be stopping by, Miss Bates.”

Regi speaks for the first time since the officer arrived. “Frank, these guys—”

The cop, Frank, cuts her off. “We’re not doing first names right now, Miss Bates.”

“Officer, we’re all in danger.”

Frank turns, looking at Dean again in frustration. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s something in this park.” Dean’s voice is deadpan, lacking its earlier mortification as he looks Frank straight in the eye. “Something dangerous. It killed Peter Watts and it’s going to kill again if we don’t do something.”

“Where?” Surprisingly, Frank gestures around the park rather than simply silencing him again. “We’ve been over this place for evidence from top to bottom. Do yourself a favour and stop talking.”

“The pond.”

“We scanned the pond. There’s nothing in there except mud and weed.”

Dean glances sideways at Castiel briefly before turning back to Frank. “Oh.”

“Yeah. So it’s in your best interest to stop pretending you have any business here at all.”

“Well, I guess…” Dean is suddenly the image of remorse, eyes widened as he looks helplessly between Castiel and Regi, both of whom narrow their eyes. Castiel can’t afford to pull the FBI card anymore, not with the way Dean is behaving—whatever way that is. Castiel still isn’t certain. He only hopes the man knows what he’s doing, and he doubts it. “I—I guess—this is a huge misunderstanding.” Dean is fumbling for words. “We should go—we’ll never bother you again.”

Frank frowns. His look at Dean is one of bemusement. “Not that simple I’m afraid, sir.” He goes for his radio. Castiel starts. Behind him, he hears Regi’s breathing falter.

“W- wait!” Dean exclaims, and Castiel starts to wonder if the way he’s acting isn’t a ruse at all. His pleading doesn’t seem to be taking any kind of direction. He’s just playing for time. “Please, you don’t understand…”

“I understand perfectly well.” Frank is still staring at Dean uneasily, but he hasn’t pressed the button on his radio yet. He’s also lowered his gun. “What’s your name?” he asks suspiciously.

He swallows. “Dean Winchester.”

“As in,  _Supernatural_  Dean Winchester?”

Dean’s eyes widen, and Castiel can tell he’s not surprised at all. “You listen to my show.”

It’s as if the air has been let out of a balloon. Frank’s mouth twitches into the faintest hints of a smile, and his eyes brighten just a bit. “I—yeah, I love your show—I  _knew_  you sounded familiar. I thought it got cancelled.”

Castiel stares at him incredulously. Is this for real? Beside him, Dean lets out a laugh. “Not cancelled, just put on hold. I had some stuff I needed to look into.”

“Monster stuff?”

“Yes.” Dean looks at Castiel and Regi Bates. Frank does too, and Castiel wonders if he’s read Dean’s latest blog entry.

“Wait—” Frank’s breath catches. “This. You think something supernatural killed Peter Watts?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“That’s insane.”

“It’s why I’m here, officer.”

“Call me Frank.” Frank looks over his shoulder once. “Dean, I…I love your show, I really do. It’s seriously cool. But I know none of it’s real.”

Dean looks genuinely disappointed. “ _Something_  killed Watts two nights ago and it wasn’t a stray dog, Frank. My friends and I are trying to save lives. Help us out, I’m begging you.”

Frank narrows his eyes at Castiel and Regi again, his gaze lingering on the latter. “She can’t be your friend, I  _know_  her.”

“I do too.” Grinning, Dean pats the woman on her shoulder, and she jumps. “We’ve known each other for years; we’re tight. Why else would she be crazy enough to help out a guy like me?”

For the first time since his arrival, Frank looks genuinely conflicted. “Listen, Dean…I believe that you believe this, but I have to take you in…it’s my job.”

Dean sighs, his face full of sympathy. “I get it, Frank. We’re all trying to do the right thing here. And if you’re gonna arrest us, I won’t try to stop you. None of us are armed,” he says, looking at Castiel pointedly. “But you’ve gotta trust me, man. I’ve seen this kind of thing before, and it always ends bloody. Whatever killed Watts was doing it for food, which means that pretty soon, it’s gonna get hungry again.”

Frank hesitates. “What do you think it is?”

“I wish I knew.” Dean’s lips purse. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. We need your help, man.” He holds out his hands, palms up.

“I could lose my job…” Frank stares at him helplessly.

“Somebody could lose their life!” Dean insists. “One guy already has. I know you think you have this situation under control and you have no reason to trust me, but  _you_  know something here ain’t right. You  _know_ it. Let me help you.”

“I—” Frank sets his jaw. “I can’t let you stay here. Just—just get the hell away from this park and this never happened. All three of you.”

Dean’s expression doesn’t change. “You won’t regret this.”

“I’d better not,” Frank says darkly. “And, uh, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“It was, um, really nice meeting you.”

Dean grins. “Shame it had to happen like this. We could’ve gone for coffee.”

* * *

 

“That was close.”

“That was reckless and stupid.”

“What the hell was that?”

Dean, Castiel and Regi all speak at the same time once they’re loaded into the Impala and speeding away from the park. Castiel isn’t happy about bringing Regi along on their getaway, but for the sake of their unexpected saviour’s continued career in law enforcement, he doesn’t complain. The sooner she gets away from the park, the better for all of them, and she doesn’t seem to have brought a car.

It’s Castiel who is first to continue. “Do you have any idea how badly that could have gone?” he snaps, barely able to contain himself. “Any possible idea?”

“It went fine,” Dean mutters, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

“We’re here as FBI,” Castiel shoots back. “The police know that. We could have just flashed our I.D. and been on our way.”

Dean shakes his head. “He’d have radioed his partners to confirm. It had to be in his best interests not to tell anyone or they’d have found out about my jamming frequency and, you know, arrested us.”

“Yeah, about that.” Castiel casts a look at Regi via the rear-view mirror. She is seated in the back seat, looking between them with wide eyes. He turns back to Dean. “What did you do that for? And— _how_?”

They’ve travelled an appropriate distance from the park, and Dean pulls the Impala over. He digs into his jacket pocket and produces an object that looks like a disused Walkman, tossing it to Castiel. “Just a temporary thing to disrupt their communications—it’d buy us more time if somebody saw us. The cops should be fine now that we’re out of range.”

Castiel turns it over in his hands once before setting it on the dashboard. “You don’t just tell people the truth, Dean,” he says at last, rubbing his temples.

“You keep saying that,” Dean says, irritated, “but I’m the one who talked us out of there and it worked just fine.”

“What if he hadn’t been a fan?”

“He was. I’m good at reading people and I’m very persuasive.”

“I can tell.”

“Excuse me,” Regi says, clearing her throat. Both Dean and Castiel ignore her.

“Would you mind sharing why you just walked in there—” Castiel begins.

“What, like you?”

“We were supposed to meet up beforehand. You shouldn’t have gone in alone.”

Dean snorts. “Are you serious? Are you actually fucking serious?”

Regi straightens up. “Can I—”

“We’re not going to solve this case if we can’t work together,” Castiel says sharply, still talking to Dean. “I get it, we’re not friends, but for the time being we’re partners, and that’s a two-way street.”

“For the love of god, shut up!” Regi snaps.

Like a switch has been flipped, there’s silence in the Impala. It’s short lived.

“Who are you people? What’s ‘Supernatural’?”

“A podcast,” Castiel explains stiffly. “He runs it. Mostly it’s about monster lore and paranormal occurrences.”

“What paranormal occurrences? Like  _Ghostfacers_?”

“No, it’s nothing like—” Dean takes a breath. “Why does everyone compare it to  _Ghostfacers_? Those guys film themselves running in to haunted houses and almost getting killed every episode. I just  _talk_  to people.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Investigating.” Castiel turns around in his seat. “Regina, I don’t care what you believe, but you have to leave well alone.”

“Bullshit. I have just as much right to this case as you do—which, okay, is none at all, but I’m pretty sure the cops don’t need some  _podcast presenter_  snooping around any more than they do a reporter. I have a duty to Peter—”

“No, you don’t.” Castiel sighs. “Your concern is admirable but you’re just getting in the way. Peter Watts’ death was a tragedy but it has nothing to do with you.”

“Shut up,” she murmurs softly, averting her eyes.

“Regina—”

“Look, fine.” She’s angrier than before. “I don’t know what to think about this whole monster thing, but I won’t go near the crime scene anymore. We both know there’s nothing there.”

Castiel hates to admit it, but he knows the damage is done. Regi has already been everywhere they have. She’s probably already spoken to the witnesses too.

“I’ll be on my way,” she says tersely. “Unless you’re going to  _stop_ me?”

Dean glances out the window at the darkened street. “Do you need a ride home?”

“I’d rather take my chances, thanks. I’ve already jumped in the car of two strangers tonight and I’d rather not top it off by telling them where I live.” She stares out the window, as if trying to figure out where they are. For a brief moment, she looks like she is about to cry. “You drove in the right direction, anyway. I left my car nearby.”

She opens the door of the Impala, stepping out onto the footpath and pulling her coat closer around herself.

Castiel opens the glove box, pulling out a printed business card. It’s months old and claims that he is an electrician, but the number on it is his. “Call us if you find anything else,” he says, rolling down the window and handing it to her. “Or if you think of something that might help. We’re looking for the same thing here, after all.”

Regi takes the card, looking at it once with a frown before shoving it uncaringly into her pocket. “Yeah, okay,” she says, retrieving the notepad from inside her coat, scribbling something onto it and tearing it off. “Same here.”

Castiel takes the scrap of paper, looking at the tidy handwriting before placing it in the glove box. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing you.”

“Bye.”

“Are you sure that was a good idea?” Dean asks as they drive away, leaving Regi to start down the street in the opposite direction. Castiel recognises the white Honda parked a few houses ahead from earlier today.

“Hmm?”

Dean looks irritated. “For someone who constantly berates me for opening my mouth, you didn’t have much of a problem enlisting some journalist to help us out.”

“She’s going to involve herself whether we like it or not,” Castiel says tersely. “I sincerely doubt that she calls us with information but at least this way she doesn’t see us as a threat to her article. We just have to get to the bottom of this before she does.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Whatever, you are the  _expert_ , after all.”

Castiel sighs, turning to look at him. “You’re angry.”

“No, I’m just sick of you. I’m tired, Cas, and I hate this place.” He looks out the window resentfully. He suddenly looks lonelier than Castiel has ever seen him, and it’s sobering.

Castiel decides not to take the statement personally. “If you wanted to go back to Kansas, I wouldn’t stop you,” he says after a moment, his voice softer. Dean smirks faintly.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he says, shaking his head. “Dude, let’s just nip this conversation in the bud. What are we going to do about our pal in the park?”

Castiel welcomes the change in direction. “I’ve got nothing. Happen to notice anything before I showed up?”

“Didn’t get a chance to look. Maybe we’ll visit our buddy the duck and ask him for an update tomorrow.”

Castiel snorts. “Right now, I say we call it a night and clock off. There’s nothing else we can do until tomorrow. With any luck, the Watts family will have something to add.”

“I wouldn’t mind doing some background research on Bates, actually,” Dean says. “There’s something weird. I think she knows something.”

“What, and didn’t tell us?”

“We didn’t exactly meet at a café,” Dean says. “If I was her I wouldn’t tell us anything either.”

Castiel shrugs. “Alright, we’ll add it to the list. If she’s a reporter she’ll have articles we can read.”

“It’s a start.”

They reach the motel, stopping in front of their room. Castiel doesn’t bother showering; he’s far too tired. Instead, he tosses his jacket on top of his duffle bag and slumps into his bed without a word. Across the room, Dean sits on the other bed, frowning down at the object like it’s the first time he’s ever used one. Castiel watches him from the corner of his eye as he removes his shoes and his jacket, lying down on top of the blankets and staring up at the ceiling, his expression thoughtful.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah, fine.”

Castiel doesn’t believe him.

* * *

 

“Petey was…he was a great boy,” Andrea Watts says, tears prickling her eyes. Beside her, her husband, Joseph, is holding her hand. He’s barely said a word since Dean and Castiel showed up at their door. His expression seems composed, but Castiel has seen enough grief-stricken families to know when somebody is keeping their emotions bottled up.

“We’re both very sorry for your loss,” Castiel says, and he means it. “I hate to have to ask you about him so soon after his death, especially since you’ve already spoken to the police, but it’s vital that we get what happened from you ourselves.”

Andrea sucks in a breath. “No, I get it. You have a job to do. There really isn’t much I can tell you, though. Peter just went to bed at his usual time and the next day, he was in the park.”

Beside Castiel, Dean is turning around on the spot, eyes darting about the living room they’re sitting in like he knows there’s something missing. Castiel tries to ignore him. “And there was no sign he was taken against his will?”

Andrea shakes her head. “The police searched the place; the doors were still locked and Peter had his key when they found him. He let himself out.”

“Can you think of any reason he might have been visiting the park so late?”

“We sometimes took him there when he was a kid, but there’s just no reason I can think of…”

“Is there any chance he was keeping something a secret?”

Andrea and Joseph look at each other. This time, it’s Peter’s father who replies. “Pete didn’t always tell us everything, you know, but that’s just teenagers. He’d never have hidden something that put his life at risk.”

“What about friends? If he would have told someone, who would it have been?”

“Our daughter, Daisy.” Andrea is answering again. “She moved out of home a few years ago.” Her expression grows sadder. “She doesn’t visit often, but she and Petey are…were very close. He spent a lot of time at her house. Practically lived there, really—whenever we got into silly arguments, he’d go over.”

Peter fought with his parents. He was nineteen; it’s not unheard of. Still, if Daisy doesn’t keep in touch with them, maybe things weren’t the best at home for either of them. Castiel doesn’t speculate; it’s none of his business.

“Have you spoken to Daisy at all, recently?”

“Yes.” Andrea picks up a tissue and wipes her eyes. “She came over as soon as she heard about Peter. She was…she was heartbroken.” Her voice breaks over the last word. Joseph squeezes her hand between his own.

“She didn’t have any idea why he might have left the house?”

“We didn’t ask.”

“Cas,” Dean says under his breath. Castiel’s eyes dart sideways, but only briefly.

“Can you give us Daisy’s address?” Castiel asks the Watts’, holding up his notepad. “I think we need to talk to her.”

“You think Daisy had something to do with Peter’s death?”

“We just need to talk to her,” Castiel assures them.

His brain is working to put the facts together. Peter didn’t bring his car with him when he left the house. The park is across the road, so he didn’t need it, if that was his final destination. Castiel just can’t figure out why. What could have convinced him to go?

Dean must have left Castiel’s side, because the next thing he knows, he’s standing on the other end of the room, beside a mantelpiece covered in framed photographs. Castiel’s eyes widen in annoyance, but Dean ignores him. “Mr. and Mrs. Watts, is this Daisy?” he interrupts, picking up one of the pictures.

Castiel squints. Dean is standing too far away for him to see the picture, which he hands to Andrea. She takes the object from Dean with a sad smile, brushing a hand against the glass. “Yes, this was Daisy and Peter at Christmas. It’s the last time all four of us were together.”

“Do you mind if I show it to Agent Sawyer?”

She shrugs, wiping her sleeve against her eyes while looking at Castiel. “I’ll write down Daisy’s address, shall I?”

“I appreciate it.”

Andrea leaves to find a pen, and her husband goes with her, a hand on her shoulder. Castiel turns to Dean. “What?”

“You’re going to love this.” Dean hands him the photo.

He’s wrong. Castiel doesn’t like it at all.

* * *

 

“Peter was your brother.”

Regina Bates barely has time to open her front door when the statement is out of Dean’s mouth, sounding dangerously like an accusation. She looks nothing like she did yesterday; her hair pokes out of her bun in a loose mess and her eyes are red and puffy with heavy bags underneath. She’s wearing the same clothes she had in the park, as well. It doesn’t look like she slept at all.

“Oh, good, it’s you,” she mutters without enthusiasm, swinging the door open.

“You didn’t think that would be something worth mentioning,  _Daisy_?” Castiel asks.

Regi doesn’t attempt to deny it. “I didn’t, actually.” She crosses her arms, suddenly alert. “Daisy Watts isn’t my name anymore. I had it changed three years ago. Is there a reason you’re here?”

Castiel looks past her at the tiny apartment beyond. It’s neat; Regi’s current state of dishevelment is a contrast to the state of her home. He moves on. “We spoke to your parents this morning.”

“Great help, weren’t they?” she says bitterly, stepping away from the door. “You can come in. I looked you up last night, Dean,” she adds, picking up a cup of what looks like coffee from her table. “Interesting stuff. Honestly, I’m too tired to question anything right now.”

Castiel and Dean follow her in, but they make no move to sit, and neither does she. “Regina, I’m truly sorry about your brother,” he says, his voice less harsh than before. “But—”

“But what, stop caring because I’m just in the way of your precious case? Get over yourself. I told you last night, I owe it to Peter to put an end to this.”

“What makes you think you can put an end to this?” Dean asks, his voice not unsympathetic. “Whatever it is you want to do, it’s not going to work. Honour your brother’s memory by not getting yourself killed.”

“Why do you care?” Regi turns away, stalking into a small kitchenette and throwing the contents of her cup down the sink. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“Your parents thought Peter might have told you something about why he was in the park,” Castiel says.

“He didn’t.” It’s a half-hearted denial.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Coffee?” Regi mutters, adding a spoonful of ground beans to her cup again.

“When did you last see your brother?” Castiel repeats, his voice firmer.

“Why should I tell you anything?” she asks, rounding on him.

“You know what killed him,” Dean says.

Both Regi and Castiel turn to face Dean. Castiel squints, frowning, but Regi sighs.

“That monster stuff on your website,” she says. “You say you’re an expert, is that true?”

“I’m the best there is.”

Regi stares at her coffee mug for a long time. “I was up all night researching,” she says tensely. “You know about  _it_ , don’t you? That’s why you’re in Worthington in the first place.”

Dean looks interested. “What do  _you_  know about it?”

Regi picks up the kettle on her counter and pours hot water into the mug. “A few months ago…” She trails off, stirring her coffee absentmindedly. “And look, I couldn’t tell the cops this because they’d think I was lying.”

“We’re a bit more open minded,” Castiel says.

Regi looks at him dubiously as she carries her fresh cup of coffee back to the table and sits down, gesturing for Dean and Castiel to do the same. She takes out a smartphone, flicking through it for several seconds before looking up again. “Nine weeks ago, to be exact, I come home from work and Peter’s here.” She pauses. “I used to let him crash here whenever Mom and Dad didn’t want him around so he has his own key. Had. Anyway, I see him and I figure there’s been another argument, but he looks really excited for some reason, and he tells me he needs my help.”

Castiel has just taken a seat across from Regi, but he leans forward with interest. Dean sits adjacent, his fingers curled together and his head angled slightly to one side.

Regi’s face darkens. “He takes me into my bathroom and there’s this… _thing_. It kind of looked like a cross between a…dog and a horse, only it was about the size of a kitten. And it was in my  _bathtub_ , just sitting there in the water.”

“Peter put it there?”

“Apparently he’d  _found_ it. Just…found it. He wouldn’t tell me where, but he brought it here, to my apartment.”

“Why?” Castiel looks at Dean and Dean looks back. They both have a bad idea of where this is going.

“It was an entirely new species. Peter’s—he was really into science. He thought it was the discovery of a lifetime.”

“Wouldn’t he have taken it to someone?” Dean asks.

Regi looks at him uncertainly. “It was just a baby,” she says. “It was terrified of me when I came in, but Peter picked it up and it just calmed right down, like it thought he was its mother. He always did have a way with animals. Peter was worried if he gave it to someone, they’d hurt it, but he couldn’t take it home because Mom and Dad would find out. He wanted to keep it at my place.”

Castiel’s eyes widen. “You didn’t say yes.”

“He was my  _brother_. You don’t know Peter; he wasn’t going to leave it to die. I couldn’t  _not_ say yes.”

“So…what, Peter came over every day to visit Junior and you babysat the thing while he couldn’t?” Dean frowns.

“Taking care of it was easy at first; it slept in the bathtub most of the day so I could just leave it while I went to work. It had  _really_  sharp teeth so we figured meat was the way to go. We gave it cat food. When it got bigger we started giving it steaks, and it just kept eating.”

Dean sits back, crossing his arms. Castiel leans forward. “But then it got too big,” he states.

“Like  _Water Horse_ , only straight out of hell. It wasn’t even…huge, but it was tough, and noisy. The neighbours started complaining. I didn’t mind the noise, at first, until when I came in to check on it one day, it bit me.”

She rolls back her shirtsleeve and holds her arm out for Dean and Castiel to see. A large, red scar is visible just below her elbow. The jaw shape resembles the bite marks on Peter exactly. “It’s healing normally,” Regi murmurs. “Thank god, because I don’t know what I would’ve done with an infection. Anyway, I go into the bathroom, and…it’s not there, so I assume it’s in the tub and go over with its dinner. Next thing I know, it leaps out of the water and attaches itself to my arm. I wouldn’t have gotten it off if I hadn’t been holding the steak to distract it.”

It begins to dawn on Castiel just how serious this story is. It wasn’t Regi who got killed; it was Peter, the person their monster imprinted on. “What did you do?”

Regi stares at her scar for a moment before rolling down her sleeve, lost in thought. “I locked it in the bathroom again, called Peter, he came over and we bandaged my arm. He went in and pacified it, but it was pretty obvious it couldn’t live in my apartment anymore.” She breaks off to down a very large swig of coffee. Upon putting the cup down, her face falls into her hands. “By then, it was eating about two pounds of meat a day. I couldn’t have kept up with it even if I could afford it. It was always hungry, and it started getting vicious. It even started having a go at Peter.”

“So you took it back to the park,” Castiel says flatly.

“No, I stabbed it with my kitchen knife.” Regi’s voice falters. “The knife dropped out of the wound and it  _healed_  itself, right in front of me. This thing, it’s not a monster; it’s a  _demon_. It’s—”

“Supernatural,” Dean says. Regi’s gaze turns to him, and she nods slowly.

“We knew from the start it wasn’t a normal animal. When it was submerged in water, we couldn’t see it. We could see the ripples and when it raised its head we could see that, but…under the water, it just wasn’t there, even when the water was clear.”

“Invisible in water and healing powers. What did you do?”

“Peter and I managed to get it into a crate and take it to the park in my car—that was…Thursday night.”

“And you just left it there?” Castiel demands. “You knew it was aggressive and you dumped it in the middle of town. I don’t believe this.”

“We tossed about a week’s worth of meat into the water with it.” For the first time, Castiel realises that Regi is crying. “And then we left. I was done with this thing; I wanted out. I told Peter it wasn’t our problem anymore, and he shouldn’t go back, but…” She breaks off with a sob. “Saturday morning, Peter was dead. He’d gone back to feed it.”

“He fed it, alright,” Dean mutters under his breath.

Castiel frowns. This is definitely their kind of case. Unfortunately, he’s stumped. Whatever it was that killed Regi’s brother, he’s never heard of anything even remotely similar.

“Regi, did you ever take a photograph of it?” he urges.

Regi sniffles. “I took a video, if you want,” she says, picking up her phone. “This was…a couple of weeks ago.” She looks up, sliding the phone down the table towards Dean and Castiel. Giving her one last look, Castiel picks it up, turning it so both of them will be able to see the screen.

When he starts the video, Castiel recognises Peter. He looks completely different here; the face Castiel had last seen pale and lifeless in the morgue is bright and smiling, reaching towards the camera to turn it away from his face. It seems to be set in the same apartment they’re currently seated in.

“Hey, you can’t afford to take pictures. We’re trying to keep her a secret.”

“I’m documenting your great discovery.” Regi’s voice is different. She sounds almost happy. “You keep saying we’re doing this for science.”

Peter rolls his eyes, and the camera turns away from his face to show a closed wooden door. “Just don’t show it to anyone,” Peter mumbles, and Castiel notices a large cut of meat in each of his hands.

“No scoop is worth more than your smile,” Regi’s voice says sarcastically, making Peter grin.

“Open the door.”

Regi’s hand appears in front of the camera reaching for the door, and Peter steps to the side as she opens it a crack. Without waiting for his sister, Peter enters the room.

“Be careful, Petey.” Regi sounds nervous.

“I’m fine.”

Regi rounds the open door, and Castiel and Dean see an empty bathroom. He frowns. The bathtub is in one corner of the room, but Castiel can’t see its contents.

“Hey, Polly. Time for your dinner,” Peter says, holding the first steak above the water as Regi inches closer with her camera. The water in the tub is a little murky, but Castiel can see to the bottom. It’s empty.

A second later,  _something_  springs from the tub; water splashes on all sides and drenches the teen. The camera shakes violently as Regi springs back with a sharp intake of breath.

Peter laughs as ‘Polly’ sinks back into the water, the first steak clasped firmly between two large jaws. The creature’s head is visible, moist brown fur with a mane of wiry dark hair running down the back of its neck. It peers up at Regi warily as the camera draws closer to get a better look, before reaching up with a single webbed paw, pinning the chunk of meat dangling from its mouth to the side of the tub and tearing it in half with its teeth. The pieces are gone in a matter of seconds, swallowed whole.

“You get a better view of it in just a second,” Regi says from behind them, and Castiel starts upon realising she’s moved. On the screen of the phone, Peter Watts is holding up the next steak, still grinning. Polly crouches, only the top of its head and two gold eyes prominent above the water. Behind Castiel and Dean, Regi reaches down just as it springs out of the water again, teeth clasping around the meat, and pauses the video.

It’s blurry, but the whole body, long and lithe and muscular, is plainly visible. Its hair is short and dark, with the exception of the mane running from the top of its head to its tail. It’s about the size of a very large cat. There is something vaguely doglike about it, although its face is longer and its teeth sharper than any canine.

Regi takes a shaky breath as Dean picks up the phone. “Peter called it Polly—Polly was our cat when he was a kid. I guess he felt nostalgic.”

“I’ll call Bobby,” Castiel says. “Maybe send him a picture as well, check if he’s seen anything like it before.”

“There’s no need.” Dean sets the phone down. “I know what it is.”

“What?” Castiel and Regi ask simultaneously.

Dean looks between them. “It’s called a bunyip; a creature from Australian Aboriginal Dreamtime mythology, said to inhabit swamps and rivers. You get them sometimes down under.”

“What’s it doing in Minnesota?” Castiel asks, his tone laced with disbelief.

Dean looks at him, reproachful. “Vacation? Why the hell would I know that? Look, these things don’t normally attack people. They have freaky-ass long lives but they’re supposed to get raised by their parents and stay away from humans. This one is a baby; it imprinted on Peter because Mom and Dad weren’t there.”

“So  _somehow_ , little Polly got taken from its parents and ended up in a bathtub the other side of the globe.” Castiel’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Not the sort of thing you can just take through customs.”

“I don’t care where it came from,” Regi says softly, her voice heavy. “How do we kill it?”

Castiel wants to stomp Dean’s foot for how surprised he looks. “You’re sure you want to kill it?” Dean asks, raising his eyebrows. “It’s a baby. If we can get it back to its normal habitat—”

“In Australia?” Regi demands, her voice breaking. “This… _bunyip_  killed my brother. It  _killed_ my  _brother_.” She turns away, brushing tears out of her eyes angrily.

“Regi…” Dean trails off.

“Our—our parents are useless,” Regi says unexpectedly, harsh. “I practically raised Peter all by myself. He needed me, and now he’s gone because he was just too  _kind_. I—I should have known he’d go back, but I was selfish and I didn’t protect him, and now he’s fucking dead. Can you imagine how that feels?” She looks at Dean sharply. “Can you?”

Dean looks like a puppy that has just been kicked. His entire face crumples as though stricken, with no anger, only anguish. The look catches Castiel off guard. He’s never seen anybody look so sad.

“I can’t imagine anything worse,” Dean murmurs.

Regi seems to notice the change as well, because she’s not shouting again when she replies. “I’m not letting that thing walk,” she says. “If you won’t tell me how to kill it I’ll figure it out myself.”

“Fire,” Dean says, straightening up. His voice is almost shaky. “You torch the sucker to death. Flamethrowers are usually best.”

“I have a flare gun,” Castiel says. “Would that work?”

Dean frowns, but nods. “Yeah, but gasoline will help, assuming it’s out of the water.”

“I’m coming with you,” Regi says. “It knows me, I can get it to come out.”

“No, you’re not.” Castiel turns to look at her sharply. “This thing didn’t have a problem killing Peter when it got hungry enough and it’s already attacked you once.”

“It’s my problem.” She looks at him with disbelief. “You think I’m going to sit back and let a couple of phony Feds take over? I’m the perfect bait.”

“You’re too close to this, Regi,” Dean says. “Cas is right. We do this for a living; you don’t. You’ve done enough.”

“I don’t believe this. I can help you.”

“I’m sure you could,” Castiel says. “But we can do the dirty work ourselves. There are going to be other loose ends that need tying up. You should work on those.”

“I’m not asking for your permission.” Regi plucks her phone out of Dean’s hands, pocketing it. “If you’re going to the park, I am too.”

Castiel holds up his hands in apparent defeat. “Either way, we have work to do first. Dean and I need to check in with the police and we can’t afford to lure the—” He falters.

“Bunyip,” Dean offers.

“We can’t lure the bunyip into the open until tonight,” Castiel says. “We have until then to get everything ready.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Regi says.

There’s no way they can let her come. Juvenile or not, their bunyip has already proven itself to be deadly, and with as much personal connection as she has, they can’t rely on Regi to be strategic or rational. Castiel remembers his first case. He’d almost been killed for the same reason.

Even so, it’s obvious that Regi isn’t going to play the victim. Saying no is the surest way to make her come. “We’ll be in touch,” he says at last as he stands up. “If we find something new between now and tonight, we’ll let you know.”

Regi rubs her eye with the base of her hand. “Thanks.”

There’s still tension between them, but Castiel isn’t angry anymore when he and Dean finally leave.

* * *

 

They don’t speak again until the Impala is taking them away, and when they do, it’s Castiel who starts.

“What happened in there?” he asks, noticing Dean’s knuckles whitening against the steering wheel.

“You got me,” Dean says, looking out the window. “She’s an idiot. Should’ve gone for help the moment her brother showed up with that thing.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Castiel says. “I meant you.”

“What about me?”

Castiel doesn’t know how to answer. Dean is the least emotionally expressive person he’s ever met, and Castiel has met many. The fact that he was able to notice his discomfort at Regi’s accusation is an indicator of something all by itself. It’s obvious he’s still not quite over it.

It’s not his place to ask. Even if it were, what is he meant to say? Eventually, he simply answers, “You wanted to let it live. The bunyip, I mean. How were you planning to manage that?”

Dean shrugs stiffly. “Doesn’t matter, I was…wrong. We have to kill it before it kills anyone else.”

Castiel’s lip curls. Dean just said he was wrong. “I know that. You’re sure fire will work?”

“Yeah. I’ve never met a bunyip, personally, but I’ve heard about ‘em. They’re feisty little bastards when they’re awake. Best way to coexist is by staying the hell away.”

“And ours is in the middle of the park.” He sighs. “We’ll have to chase it up, you know. Find out where Peter got Polly, see if there are any more around.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“What do you mean? We don’t even know what we’re looking for. Could be some kind of monster breeding program, for all we know.”

Dean slows the car, and Castiel realises they’re approaching the park again. He feels a twinge of unease. Even if Polly is sleeping, the knowledge that their monster is doing so at the bottom of the pond and there’s nothing he can do to about it unsettles him.

“I did some more research in Schulz last night,” Dean says suddenly, getting Castiel’s attention. That morning, Dean had been awake before him, with no indication of when he’d gotten out of bed. The man never seems to sleep.

“What did you find?”

“She moved to Lawrence in November, 1983,” Dean explains, his tone betraying a level of unhappiness that suggests the date means something important. “It’s…it’s weird, though, because she wasn’t the only witch. I did some poking around—on the internet—and it turns out a whole lot of witches started popping up in Lawrence around that time. Dozens of ‘em. Either they moved there, or they were locals who suddenly discovered black magic.”

“Well, that’s weird.”

“That is weird.” Dean stops the car on the side of the road, not far from where they’d stopped the night before. “Most of them had left by the end of the year, but Schulz, apparently, stuck around, got her teaching degree.”

“You found all this out on one night? From a computer?”

“I’m a smart guy.”

“I can tell.”

Dean isn’t paying attention to him anymore. He’s looking at the cops with scrutiny.

Castiel follows his gaze. “I can’t see Frank there. Think he turned us in?”

Dean opens his door. “I doubt it. He was okay.” He reaches into his jacket for his FBI badge, and Castiel gets out of the car, doing the same. There’s no need; the officer from yesterday recognises them and comes over.

“Agents,” she says grimly. “I was wondering when you’d arrive. You heard the news?”

“Sergeant.” In spite of his surprise, Castiel is careful to keep his response unperturbed. “We came as soon as we could,” he says. “What’ve you found here?”

“There’s nothing here now except more blood; the officer’s been taken to the hospital. He’s still unconscious.”

Castiel stiffens. Dean clears his throat. “Can you tell us his name, again?”

The sergeant nods. “Miller—Frank Miller. Youngest member of the force, too, but very bright. It’s terrible something like this would happen to him.”

Frank is in hospital? Castiel tries to hide his alarm. “It’s definitely the same thing that happened to the Watts boy?”

“The bite marks are identical. Whatever attacked them is right here under our noses, but none of us have seen it. Any theories?”

Castiel glances at Dean. “We’d like to take a quick look around, first. Contact us if Officer Miller wakes up; we’ll let you know what we find until then.”

“I’d advise being careful, but I’m sure you already know that.”

They bid farewell, and the sergeant goes back to her car while Castiel and Dean duck under the police tape.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean curses loudly as soon as they’re out of earshot.

“It must have been just after we left.”

Dean looks angry, but not at Castiel. “We should’ve guessed. Should’ve fucking known this would happen. He could die.”

“We don’t know how bad it is.”

“It sounds pretty damn bad, and you know what this thing did to Peter.” Dean runs a hand over his face. “Crap, the guy helped us. He fucking helped us and now he’s in hospital.” The sentence ends with Dean fumbling for his phone, taking it out and staring at the screen while Castiel continues warily towards the pond. He suddenly feels the absence of a flamethrower very much.

“What do you think happened?”

“The cops emailed us a preliminary report,” Dean mutters, still staring at his phone. “This morning. It would’ve arrived while we were on our way to meet Regi’s parents.”

“And?”

“They heard a gunshot, just after midnight. Radioed, no response, came to check, he’s on the ground, no obvious cause. Just your typical clueless cop report.”

“We’re taking care of it tonight.”

“Hell yeah we are. It’s not happening to anyone else.”

Castiel comes to a halt in front of the pond. It’s completely still. No ducks are there today, not even one.

“Did you hear that, Polly?” Dean asks, joining him and staring down into the murky water. “It’s not happening to anyone else.”

No answer comes from below.

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long for them to get ready; they collect two large jerry cans of gasoline on the way back to the motel and a quick check reveals Castiel’s flare gun to be in working order. They call Regi, and she agrees to go by the hospital to visit Frank in case he wakes up.

All that’s left to do is wait. They track down the Biggerson’s where Peter worked, and have lunch there. Predictably, Dean orders pie—blueberry this time. He seems to have quite an attachment for somebody who just two days prior described eating as a distraction.

Castiel orders coffee and a sandwich, both of which are tasteless on his tongue. He’s still mulling over the details of their case. Dean, on the other hand, breaks the silence with discussions of their last one.

“I’m going to start looking for patterns,” he says eventually, looking up from his pie.

“Hm?” Castiel asks, distracted.

“Like there was in Lawrence,” Dean explains. “The place suddenly becomes Witch Central for a couple of months, there’s gotta be a reason. If there are any other towns where the same thing happened, we can start work on piecing together what the hell the deal is.”

Castiel has a lot of questions—like how Dean had been able to put together such a pattern in the first place. Witches hardly publicise the fact that they’re witches on social media. Even if it were possible to work it out from a single computer, what the hell has Dean done to find it in one night?

He looks dubious. “We should work on where the bunyip came from first,” he says. “It’s a more pressing concern.”

“I think there’s a bigger picture here that we’re missing,” Dean says, like Castiel hasn’t spoken. His fork pokes absentmindedly at his pie. “Maybe if we pay a visit to some of the witches who moved out of Lawrence in ’84, see what kind of hoodoo they’re working…if it’s the same ilk as what Schulz was doing, we may be onto something.”

“Demons?” Castiel asks, impatient. “Dean, I want to investigate it as much as you do—it wasn’t luck that had us walking away from that crash—but we  _know_  something here. We should stick with what we know. There isn’t even any proof that demons are real.”

“That’s only because you haven’t seen one,” Dean says, acknowledging him at last. “I have. I know what I’m talking about, okay? Bunyips are smart but they’re just animals. Demons are a whole new level of bad news; they can plot and scheme and have motivations outside basic survival instincts. They cause havoc for the sake of it. If there are witches calling on demons in Lawrence, they’re not asking for favours. Demons don’t do anything for humans; Schulz and any other witches using spells like the one in that book are just pawns.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about demons,” Castiel observes, sitting back and taking a large sip of coffee.

“That’s because I do.” Dean puts his fork in his mouth. “Enough to know it’s more important than figuring out where Peter found Polly. Christ, Cas, two days ago we were arguing over who got to take the book and investigate.”

“Two days ago I asked you what you knew about demons and your answer was ‘not a lot’,” Castiel says reproachfully. What is Dean trying to say? Castiel has every intention of finding out what Schulz was killing people over. He is also going to find out how a monster from Australia found its way to the United States. He doesn’t say any of that; Dean already knows. Instead, he asks, “Say we do find more witches and they are working for demons. What then?”

“Ask questions, I guess.” Dean shrugs. “We’ve barely scratched the surface.”

Castiel sighs. “After this case, you should show me what you found last night. With any luck, the whole situation here will be cleared up tonight and we can hit the road tomorrow morning. If you can give me an address, that’s where we’ll go.”

“By car?” he asks, unimpressed.

“No, on horseback.” Castiel looks at him pointedly. “Yes, by car. I thought you liked my car now.”

“Cars are slow.” Dean sits back in his chair dejectedly. “I make more headway when I’m on my own.”

“What’s your problem, Dean?” Castiel demands, thoroughly fed up.

“What do you mean?”

“You act like you’re superior as an individual in pretty much everything.” Castiel sighs, calming himself. “Listen, I’m not so full of pride as to deny that you clearly know more than me about the supernatural, and I’m ready to admit that what you do is…important, that it helps people—it helped us, after all—but then you say things like  _this_. Make more headway on your own? You hate cars and you hate aeroplanes, so what  _exactly_  would you be doing if I weren’t here?”

“I use my computer,” Dean says, shoving the last of his pie into his mouth. “I hack things. I can get to more places from an attic in Lawrence than I could ever get from behind a wheel.”

“Well, that’s good for you. Great. I guess there’s no need for us drive anywhere to investigate your witches, then. I’ll leave that to you and your laptop while I work on solving some actual cases.”

Silence ensues. Castiel pays for lunch.

* * *

 

There’s no need for stealth when Castiel and Dean arrive at the park for the second night in a row. They’ve already told the police that they’ll be coming—the park itself is nearly empty of cops, at Castiel’s recommendation. The only police they encounter are guarding the perimeter, under strict orders not to venture inside.

It’s barely six thirty when they make their way down to the water’s edge, dim but not yet completely dark. Castiel’s flare gun is in his hands while he keeps watch as Dean pours a circle of gasoline around the circumference of the pond.

Regi called them half an hour ago to tell them that Frank had woken up. Surprisingly, she’d decided to stay with him to explain the situation before he said anything he shouldn’t to the other cops. It’s for the best; Frank has already seen the bunyip, as well as Dean. He already believes in monsters; knowing the full story is his safest option.

Castiel isn’t going to complain; one more person out of the firing line is one less potential risk.

“We need another ring,” Castiel says, setting down the flare gun to open the large cooler box of raw meat they’ve bought. “Around this,” he says, tipping the contents onto the ground a good twenty feet away from the edge of the water. “Lighting too many fires is risky, but if we can get flames all around it, it should buy us enough time to…get the job done.”

“Assuming it doesn’t jump over them,” Dean adds as he picks up the next fuel can and carries it to where the meat is dumped. He begins a second circle, pouring fuel onto the grass around the meat. “I gotta ask, what do we do if we accidentally, you know, burn this place to the ground?”

“We’ll be careful.”

Dean chuckles as he finishes the ring, straightening up and carrying the remaining gasoline to a safe distance. “Good plan.”

They go silent for a moment as Castiel collects his flare gun and checks it one last time, carrying it away from the gasoline. Last night, the bunyip didn’t attack until after midnight. If they have to wait until the same time, they’re in for a long night. Waiting shouldn’t be necessary with bait.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” Castiel asks suddenly. “We are about to…burn the thing to death.”

“Why wouldn’t I be okay with it?”

Castiel shrugs, looking at the water again. It’s now well and truly dark.

“It is a shame,” Dean admits after a pause. “It’s a baby. Not it’s fault for trying to stay alive; I bet it just wants to go home.”

“It doesn’t have a home,” Castiel says without looking at him, opening a box of matches with a frown.

“Doesn’t mean it don’t want one.” Dean cocks his head, and Castiel realises he is watching him. “Don’t get me wrong; it’s dangerous, it obviously has to go. When somebody you love is dead, it doesn’t make a difference who did it or why. It’s sad, though.”

Castiel raises his head, looking at him pointedly. “Are we still talking about Polly?”

“Yeah.” Dean bends down, picking up three large chunks of meat from the pile and dropping two of them in a trail from the pond.

Castiel is ready to admit that he has mixed feelings. He’s killed a lot of monsters in his time. As often as not, those monsters had once been people, with families and feelings just like his. He’s never had qualms with killing them before, because he does it to protect others. That’s what he’s doing here; they can’t risk moving the bunyip, but if they let the it go, it’s going to kill more and more people until another hunter steps in to finish the job. It’s best this way.

It hasn’t escaped him, however, that killing people isn’t part of its nature. According to Dean, bunyips eat mostly fish and larger animals that come to the water to drink. If it had been where it was supposed to, it would get to live out its life in peace. Polly is just like him, in a way; trying to get by in an impossible situation.

Dean snaps him out of his reverie by dropping the final steak by the water’s edge and backing away quickly. “You know, I’m starting to think we’ve got the wrong place. No ambush, nothing; it’s disappointing.”

“I thought you said it wouldn’t wake up yet.”

“You’d think all this noise would be shooting off alarm bells,” Dean says, returning to Castiel’s side without taking his eyes off the water.

“Reassuring,” Castiel says as Dean grabs his torch and switches it on. The surface of the pond is still.

“I wasn’t talking about Polly.”

Castiel looks at him.

“Before, I mean,” Dean explains. “And look, I get it, I’m not looking for a heart to heart here.” He observes him, tilting his head with a frown like Castiel is a puzzle. “But I’ve been around for a while, and I like to think I know people, and you…you’ve lost somebody.”

“Everybody’s lost somebody, Dean.”

“You lost somebody, and it was your fault,” Dean continues, still watching him, but his voice is softer now, almost sympathetic. “I think that’s why you hunt.”

Castiel starts, eyes narrowing at Dean. “What are you trying to say?” he snaps, sudden aggression entering his tone.

Dean doesn’t flinch. “I’m sorry, Cas,” he says, looking away. “Forget I said anything.”

Castiel doesn’t forget, but he finds himself staring at Dean for a moment longer, trying to piece him together. He could be wrong, but he’s fairly certain that he isn’t the one here to have lost someone close to them.

Then Dean frowns. “Hey, do you see that?”

Castiel follows his gaze, and he notices immediately. The steak Dean dropped by the water is gone.

The two of them back away immediately, and Castiel wants to curse. How can they have missed it in just a few minutes? Scanning the pond, he realises ripples are still visible.

“Is it still in the water?” he asks.

“We’d have heard it getting out.” Dean grabs the box of matches from Castiel, making his way back to the pond before Castiel can hold him back. “You in there, Polly-o? It’s dinner time, come on out; I taste good.”

“Dean,” Castiel growls, lifting up the flare gun, “come back here.”

Dean, predictably, ignores him, crouching beside the pond and splashing the water with his hand. “I know you can hear me,” he says darkly. “It’s time to settle this.”

From somewhere across the water, somebody screams.

It’s full of pain, as much a cry of surprise as sufferance, and Castiel’s eyes are immediately drawn to the source of the sound. The park is too dark to see anything clearly, but when Dean leaps up from the water’s edge, turning his torch towards the scream, Castiel gets his first glimpse of the monster that he’s hunting, teeth attached firmly around the leg of Regi Bates as she stumbles away, falling onto her back with a second yelp.

The bunyip is bigger than it was in the video, now about the size of a large dog, fed up on ducks and fish and hapless teen. Its limbs are long and sinewy, plastered with dark hair, but Castiel doesn’t give himself time to process its appearance.

“ _Shit_.” Castiel makes a bolt for Regi at the same time Dean does, but a short, silver knife is plunged into the creature’s shoulder before either of them can reach her. It releases its clamp on her leg immediately, giving a blood-curling shriek, and Regi crab-crawls backwards, releasing her hold of the knife.

It hits the grass with a sound that is lost amongst the other noise present, and the bunyip’s call is cut abruptly short.

“Use the flares,” Dean yells.

Castiel can’t do that now, not with Dean and Regi so close. The bunyip is still recovering from its stab, but it sinks to the ground, snarling as if it knows that he’s the one it should fear. Behind it, Dean has reached Regi, and he grabs her hand, helping her awkwardly to her feet as her face contorts in pain.

They’re on either side of the bunyip now, and it turns briefly, baring its teeth at Dean before looking back in the direction of the pond. Both Dean and Castiel realise what it’s about to do at the same time, but it’s Castiel who acts first, firing a single flare at the edge of the water.

The circle of gasoline on the ground goes up in flames with an audible flush, spreading around the circumference in a matter of seconds, just in time to hit the bunyip’s paw. The flames are not as high as Castiel would have liked; for a fraction of a second, he thinks the bunyip is going to jump over them, but instead it flattens itself to the ground, backing away with a growl. It’s never seen fire in its life.

It’s momentarily shocked, and Castiel sees the chance where there is one. He runs in a semicircle to put himself between Dean and the monster, lifting up the flare gun for a second shot, this one aimed directly at the—

“Cas!” Dean shouts, and Castiel rounds on him. Dean is now supporting the fully-unconscious figure of Regi Bates with one arm, and he steps forward, physically yanking the flare gun from Castiel’s hold with inhuman strength. He shoves Regi at him. “Get her out of here.”

“What are you—”

Dean doesn’t give him a chance to respond. Using his now-freed arm, he pushes Castiel sideways, blundering forward with weapon in hand.

* * *

 

“Rise and shine, Cas,” Dean’s voice says, accompanied by a not-quite-painful slapping at Castiel’s cheek. “Fun’s over and I’m not hauling your ass back to the car.”

Castiel’s eyes dart open, and the first thing he sees is stars. Then the stars are Dean’s freckles, surrounded by—yes, those are actual stars framing his face. It’s night time, and there are stars.

He heaves himself upright just as Dean straightens up, and Castiel recognises the distinctive smell of burnt flesh. The reality hits him. “Dean, what happened?”

“You passed out.”

Castiel reaches up, rubbing the wound on his head. It still throbs painfully when he touches it. “I can see that. I mean why did I pass out? I don’t remember…” He starts. “The bunyip.”

“Dead,” Dean says sombrely, turning and pointing to a section of burnt grass beside the pond, where Castiel had last seen their monster. A few bone fragments are visible amidst the pile of ash. Dean has been very thorough. “I don’t know why you fainted, man. You started swaying on your feet and I had to finish the job myself. Regi fainted too.” He gestures to the unconscious woman, laid out carefully on the grass a few feet away. “She’s okay except for the leg, just hasn’t woken up yet. Maybe bunyips secrete some kind of knockout gas when they feel threatened.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

Dean shrugs, standing and offering Castiel a hand, which he accepts, hauling himself to his feet. He hopes that passing out doesn’t become a regular occurrence, because twice in as many cases isn’t something that sets his mind at ease.

“If that’s true, why weren’t you affected?” Castiel asks, hand dropping from his head as he surveys their surroundings. He can still smell gasoline amidst the smoke, although the fire around the pond is gone. It’s dark, but he can tell that not much has changed since he was last awake.

“Do I look like an expert on bunyips to you?” Dean demands impatiently. “I know how they die, not how they tick. The case is over, it’s dead; we just have to get out of here before the cops get too curious.”

Castiel stares at him in disbelief. “Aren’t you at least a little bit concerned?”

“Not really.” Dean runs over to the abandoned cooler box, closing it and picking it up along with the empty fuel cans. “We killed the monster, we saved the girl, now I just want to go back to the motel and crash.” He stops beside the pile of ashes, using his foot to push the bulk of them, including the bones, into the water. Maybe there’s some kind of cruel irony there, but being in the water is probably what it would have wanted.

“I didn’t even see it die.”

“Boo hoo.” Dean shoves the box and the jerry cans into his hands. “You carry these to the car, I’ll get, you know, Regi.”

Castiel readjusts his hold on the objects he’s been handed. Dean had a point; they need to leave. Blow town, and let the police come up with their own theories. “To be honest, I’m not surprised she came anyway,” he admits dryly, glancing at Regi before scanning the park one final time as Dean bends down to pick her up.

“She’s an idiot.” Dean heaves her ungracefully up, starting in the direction of the Impala. “Family makes idiots of us all.”

* * *

 

“After we got her to the hospital, we hightailed it out of there,” Dean says. “I know, I know; I make a big deal about never being afraid to tell your story, so I should have stuck around, but Cas’s face gets all huffed when I piss him off and I’m worried if I do it too many times it’ll start to lose its charm.” He punctuates this with a grin at Castiel, who rolls his eyes, shaking his head with traces of a smile as he tries to concentrate on his newspaper. Dean isn’t even funny.

“Anyway, right now, we’re a state over in a motel and Cas is looking at me from across the room. Got a newspaper in his hands so he’ll probably have our next port of call ready to tell me when I finish recording. Stay tuned for tomorrow,” Dean chatters cheerfully. “As usual, there’s more information on my website. Anyone out there who knows more about bunyips, I’d love to hear about it, so shoot me a message. If you just want to chat, send me one anyway; I’m sure there’s a lot we can talk about. See you tomorrow, this is Dean Winchester, and this has been  _Supernatural_.”

Dean clicks his mouse, standing up and stretching.

“Satisfied?” Castiel asks wryly, closing his paper and pushing it aside.

“Yeah, thanks.” Dean picks up the cup of coffee he left on the table and chugs it down, giving a sigh when he’s done. “I’ll do some editing and put it online after dinner.”

Castiel shrugs. They’ve already come to an agreement, after all. The story remains the same, if emboldened by artistic liberty, although Dean has changed most of the names and the town from their case. Castiel’s is the only one he left as it is, although his surname isn’t specified. Bobby is going to have something to say about that. All of the hunters are, if and when they inevitably find out that one of their own is fraternising with the enemy. He decides he’s okay with that; he’s never been one to follow procedure, and Dean…well, Dean is a persuasive man.

“On that note, what did you feel like doing for dinner?” Castiel asks, standing up from the bed he is sitting on.

“We passed a pizza joint on the way into town. They deliver,” Dean says, looking wistful. “I’ve always wanted to try pizza.”

“You’ve never had pizza?”

“I’m having it now,” Dean argues, patting his pockets for his phone and frowning when he can’t find it. “I’ll order. What do you want?”

“Order two for yourself, I’ll eat what’s left.”

Dean shrugs. “I left my phone in the car, give me a second,” he says, leaving the room without a pause.  

“Who leaves their phone in the car?” Castiel asks himself, picking up his duffel bag from the floor and dumping it on his bed.

After dropping Regi at the hospital, they left Worthington behind without waiting for her to wake up. He felt guilty for doing so, but it was for the best; Regi and Frank will be okay now. Dean and Castiel have work to do.

He frowns, going over to the other bed, where he has spent most of the last half-hour cleaning and checking the weapons while Dean went about recording his podcast. There’s a bit more to do before he’ll be satisfied, and he sits down, about to pick up the next gun, when something red catches his eye, sitting on the corner of the bed.

Dean had packed away the flare gun before Castiel woke up in the park; he's barely thought about it since then, but seeing it now, he picks up the case, clicking it open. He needs to buy more flares.

A quick check reveals the gun itself to be in working order, in spite of the light show it gave them in the park. The rest of the flares are packed in their holders to the side, a single empty one at the bottom of the row. Castiel is about to close it again when he frowns.

One flare is missing; the one he’d used to light the first ring of gasoline. According to Dean, he used a second one after Castiel was knocked out. There should be two. Why would Dean lie?

“Got us a meatlovers and a supreme,” Dean announces with no small amount of pride, marching back into the room. “They’ll be here in half an hour.” He halts, noticing Castiel’s expression. “What?”

Castiel closes the box, setting it down and standing up. “Nothing,” he says. 


	3. Bozeman, Montana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a scene with mildly graphic animal cruelty. I've kept detail to a minimum but it might be upsetting to some people.

Days turn into weeks, and Dean and Castiel start to develop a workable system. Dean is…not a bad hunter, although he takes to firearms with reluctance. Castiel teaches him how to use and maintain a gun, but his obvious opposition to learning makes Castiel give up after a few days of making him practice. When the two of them hunt a djinn in North Dakota, Dean is the one who drives the silver knife through its chest, and Castiel is forced to admit that he’s not _completely_ useless.

Their fourth case brings them to a hotel in Wyoming haunted by the spirit of a man who hung himself in the penthouse. Their fifth is a Chupacabra.

The long hours spent in the Impala driving between towns are probably the worst, especially after Dean buys a collection of dated cassette tapes at a garage sale in a town they pass through. Castiel has always prided himself in enjoying a wide range of musical genres, but even he can only take so much of Metallica when it’s being blasted at top volume for five hours at a time.

When Dean discovers television, it’s like a switch has been flipped.

It starts with casual channel surfing; Castiel is trying to read Dean a newspaper article when he picks up the motel’s T.V. remote with a frown, Castiel’s words falling on deaf ears. Dean turns the television on, head cocked as he stares with intrigue at the hospital set of _Doctor Sexy, M.D._ , and there is no going back.

He develops an affinity for _Star Trek_ when they spend a day in the hotel after taking care of the ghost, sitting transfixed in front of the screen for the better part of eight hours during a marathon, flatly refusing to leave. Castiel starts to worry about his health. After that, Dean expands his horizons. He seems to have a fascination with reality shows.

It would have been annoying, except it gives Castiel the insight to sign Dean up for a Netflix account. After that, the drives are blissfully silent; Dean spends his passenger shifts with headphones in his ears and laptop in hand, occasionally raising his head to ask questions.

Surprisingly, it’s recreational reading that Dean discovers next. Castiel had until previously assumed that Dean was an avid reader—given the stacks of books in his room in Lawrence and the sheer wealth of his knowledge, it isn’t an unjustified assumption. Consequentially, he is genuinely shocked when Dean tells him that he’s never read an actual novel.

They buy a Kindle, and Dean starts downloading books.

In the evenings, Dean records his podcast.

It’s not quite daily; it only comes out on weekdays, but even so, five half-hour episodes every week is an impressive feat for anyone. Somehow, Dean is never bored—and more importantly, he never runs out of things to talk about. His adventures with Castiel become a segment, lasting anywhere from five minutes to the entirety of the show, depending on what they’re doing, and the rest of the time is dedicated to whatever topic Dean chooses for the episode. It’s dealer’s choice, Dean tells him. Since it’s made by him and him alone, he is the one who gets to decide what he tells his listeners. Perhaps there’s a lack of formality in the structure of the time slots, but it never seems to discourage fans.

It’s been over a month since they were in Worthington when Dean asks Castiel if he wants to make an appearance.

“You mean actually talk?” Castiel asks, turning his head towards the driver’s seat where Dean is sitting.

“Yeah,” Dean explains, glancing back at the road. “You know, a little Q and A thing, or just a comment. Hell, some speaking in the background. I’ve been talking about you and what we do, people are starting to get curious. They want to meet you, know for sure you’re a real guy.”

That doesn’t come as a surprise. He’s been following Dean’s blog long enough to be familiar with the questions he gets asked. He shakes his head in response. “No offense, Dean, but I’d rather keep my head down. The public knows too much about me as it is. You can go ahead and chronicle our little adventures if you want but I think it’s best if I didn’t encourage anyone.”

“What are we, Holmes and Watson?”

Castiel smiles to himself. Dean has started doing that; likening things to something he’s read or seen on television, and he is doing it more as he expands his background. “Maybe,” he says, frowning at the comparison. It’s not one he would have made. “Although I’d have said you were more Holmes than I was.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Dean says, grinning, and slows the car. “We’re coming up to a rest stop. You hungry?”

“I could eat,” Castiel admits, noticing the exit just as Dean turns the Impala into it.

He finds himself watching Dean as he pulls the car into the space offered beside a picnic table. They’ve been driving all morning; both of them need a break, although Dean is very good at not showing it.

Dean may be the chronicler of the two, but he’s also the mysterious genius and Castiel can never tell what he’s thinking. They’ve known each other six weeks now, but Dean is still as much a mystery to him as he was when they first met. If either of them is Sherlock Holmes, it’s Dean Winchester, and the man knows it. A mutual respect bordering on friendship has started to form itself between them, but Castiel isn’t kidding himself; he doesn’t know Dean at all.

He’s started to realise that he wants to, though. Much as he hates to admit it, he _likes_ Dean. He likes seeing the look of wonder that crosses Dean’s face whenever he eats, even as he wonders why it’s there. He likes watching him sit in front of a television and watching him drive and he even likes working their cases together. How about that.

Their cooler box is on the back seat, and Castiel takes two beer bottles from it when they stop as well as a couple of protein bars from the glove box. Dean fetches his laptop from the trunk, carrying it over to the picnic table as Castiel joins him.

“You were going to tell me about this case you found,” Castiel says, remembering the conversation they had before checking out of their motel that morning. Presumably, it’s the reason Dean got his computer out.

“I was,” Dean agrees, sitting down next to Castiel and opening his laptop on the bench. Castiel hands him one of the bars and a bottle of beer. They didn’t get a chance to discuss Dean’s supposed case that morning; priority was to get out of town as soon as possible. It always is. Now, though, their last case is behind them and they’re scanning the horizon for the next. Dean has never found them a case before, but Castiel is interested to see where his idea of weird is going to take them.

The computer is already open to Dean’s blog. “Ghost hunt,” Dean says, opening his beer and taking an absentminded sip.

“You’re sure?”

“One of my listeners messaged me at four o’clock this morning. He owns a private zoo in Montana and according to him, there’s a ghost killing his animals. He wants me to come and check it out.”

“I’m sorry, did you say a _zoo_?”

Dean shrugs. “I thought it was weird too, but hey, an angry spirit’s an angry spirit, right?”

“Why would a spirit be killing zoo animals?”

“Beats me—but the handy thing is, we don’t need to spend a day trying to see if he’s right, because the zoo’s security footage caught the ghost doing it last night. He emailed me that too, to see what I’d make of it.”

“Show me?”

“It’s kind of bloody.” Dean opens a video file on his computer, and Castiel puts down his protein bar while he watches.

It’s in black and white, but he can see what appear to be wolves, in an enclosure dispersed with trees. There are three on the screen. One is curled up; Castiel assumes that it’s sleeping. Another is in the top corner of the screen, scratching itself, while the third is making its way over to the first, as if to join it. There doesn’t appear to be anything amiss, although wolves aren’t exactly Castiel’s area of expertise.

The wolf in the corner sits up, and there’s no sound on the video but Castiel can see it growl, crouching and flattening its ears at nothing. The others immediately snap to attention, on their feet as soon as the first alerts them of the danger. There’s still no sign of a ghost on the camera. Sometimes they aren’t visible; it depends on the type of spirit, but the wolves are definitely aware of _something_.

There’s a burst of static in the centre of the screen, and then a woman is standing in the middle of the enclosure. The wolves react immediately, crowding her with bared teeth. Castiel stiffens. He can only see the back of her, but she is completely relaxed, unafraid. It’s already obvious how this is going to play out when the first wolf lunges. The woman’s image wavers, affected by more static, and the hapless animal passes through her, stumbling inelegantly to its feet before turning around. By now, the others are trying as well.

Castiel has seen a lot of murders, both on screen and in person, but he feels a twinge of nausea as the woman catches second wolf to attack with her bare hands. He’s grateful for the lack of sound, because the sound made by the animal as its attacker started to tear it apart with blunt nails cannot have been a pleasant thing to hear.

He doesn’t tear his eyes from the footage until Dean closes the video.

“Yeah,” Dean says.

Castiel looks at him. “Where did you say this was?”

“Just outside of Bozeman, Montana,” Dean says, pulling the computer towards himself. He is visibly more sombre than before. “Worth checking out?”

“A vengeful spirit with a vendetta against wolves.” Castiel can’t deny that he’s curious. Even if he weren’t, he can’t very well leave a ghost in the middle of the zoo unattended, not after what he’s just seen.

And the woman who killed the wolves is definitely no longer living; the flickering, the strength that allowed her to pick up the fully grown canine and tear it to shreds with her hands…he knows the signs. Instinct tells him this is more than just a fan making an elaborate hoax for a chance to meet his idol. This is a case, clear and simple, and it needs investigating.

“It’s not just wolves,” Dean explains, maximising a previously closed window to display an email, presumably from the zookeeper. “She got a lion two nights earlier as well, but it’s not visible in the security footage.”

Castiel stares. “She killed a lion?”

Dean makes a face. “Yeah, I guess. So you in?”

“I’m in.” Castiel glances back at the Impala, thoughtful. They’re in Utah; Montana is about ten hours away. If they leave now, they can make it to the zoo by early evening, and if this listener of Dean’s already knows about the supernatural, they won’t have to bullshit around him. They can get straight to working on the case, and Castiel may not wholeheartedly approve of having ‘normal’ people in on that one big secret, but he’d be a fool for not taking advantage of the fact that this man is. They can ask him whatever questions they need to.

Maybe Castiel can stay at the zoo to watch for any more appearances from Jane Doe while Dean works on identifying who she actually is. That shouldn’t be too difficult; they already know what she looks like, from behind at least. A quick salt and burn, and they can be finished within twenty-four hours.

“Great,” Dean says, picking up his beer bottle again and downing the rest of the somewhat cold liquid. Castiel notices him stow the bar for later. “You want to drive?”

“I don’t need your permission to drive my own car,” Castiel says, making Dean roll his eyes as he gets in the passenger side, still holding his laptop.

“Whatever. Ever watched _Game of Thrones_?”

“No, have you?”

“I’m about to.”

Dean’s headphones are too loud. When they start driving, Castiel turns on the radio in silent protest, and Dean responds by turning his headphones up louder, and Castiel is forced to concede defeat because Dean will readily blow his eardrums before offering Castiel the same courtesy. He focuses instead on the road, letting the hum of the static-filled traffic report drown out the sound of…whatever _Game of Thrones_ is about. He’s certain he’ll be hearing about it from Dean soon enough.

Somewhere between towns, he picks up that the weather has been warm for February and a new species of mammal has been discovered somewhere in the Amazon and some kind of study is challenging accepted beliefs about cholesterol. Most of it goes over his head, but he listens anyway, because he is a hunter, and he listens to everything. There’s always another case out there waiting to be found, and if he doesn’t find it, it’s going to cost lives. It always costs lives.

A sports report comes on next, and he sits through it, expressionless. The names are of teams he doesn’t know in a game he didn’t pay attention to. Then it’s the health report, and there’s been an influenza outbreak in some Texas town named Kermit, and he’s about to give up on finding cases and try a different channel when he realises that Dean’s headphones are no longer playing.

In fact, Dean himself is no longer looking at his computer. He’s looking at the radio, his shoulders tense and his expression twinged with interest.

“ _By the time the Department of Health and Human Services got there, supposedly, the entire ward was cured_ ,” a female voice is saying. “ _As you said, some of our authorities are actually doubting there was a disease outbreak there at all. There were no recorded deaths, and many of the individuals who claimed to have contracted influenza also showed that they were vaccinated against the most common strains._ ”

“ _They were claiming that the disease was an entirely new strain of the flu, weren’t they?_ ” a man asks, his voice accented with a hint of Texas drawl.

“ _It’s what was reported. Needless to say, an unfamiliar and highly contagious influenza strain is a major concern to the Health Department, but since the two-dozen cases were reported, we’ve found no evidence to confirm the existence of such a strain. It does seem unusual that a disease could have been as serious as local health professionals are claiming and yet still be completely healed, in every single one of it’s cases, by the time anyone arrived to study it._ ”

“ _And now the department’s saying the whole thing was some kind of elaborate hoax._ ”

“ _It’s a possibility_.” The woman’s voice sounds strained. “ _We haven’t found any traces of influenza in any of the supposed victims. In fact, they’re all in perfect health. Whatever this disease was, it seems to be gone now._ ”

“Huh,” Dean says, closing his laptop.

Castiel turns off the radio as the announcer moves on top another topic. “Mean anything to you?”

“Just that the patients were pretty damn lucky to recover so fast.”

“You think they actually got sick?” Castiel asks, considering it himself.

Dean ignores him at first, pulling out his phone and typing something into his Google search. “If they did, I’m just saying, miraculous recoveries could be our kinda thing.”

“That’s a pretty big if, Dean,” Castiel says dubiously. “You heard what she said; they’re still investigating.”

Dean’s eyes are fixed on his phone. “We should go there and check it out, just to be sure.”

“Texas is fifteen hours away,” Castiel says, frowning. “It’s a bit of a detour, but if we can get to Bozeman by tonight and find our ghost tomorrow—”

“I’d like to go now, if you don’t mind.”

Castiel looks at him. Dean looks back.

“Are you joking? We’re on a case. _Your_ case.”

“You can handle Cruella de Vil, Cas. This is gonna take me…two days, tops. We can meet up after.”

“We only have one car, Dean.”

Dean looks at the Impala’s dashboard with longing. “I’ll get a coach,” he says at last, shooting Castiel a serious look, which Castiel holds. “Seriously, man, I’ve gotta do this, it could be important.”

“ _How_?” Castiel can’t believe what he’s hearing. For somebody who prides himself in his ability to get his information from a computer without having to move, Dean is unusually determined to tear halfway across the country in the exact opposite direction of the where they’re meant to be headed. Dean is behaving like himself, in that he’s behaving unpredictably, but that doesn’t stop Castiel from wondering. Why is an influenza outbreak that didn’t happen in a small city in Texas worth that kind of a trip to him? “I mean it, Dean. If you want us to drive down there then we will, but first we’ve got this case—”

“Forget the damn case!” Dean snaps, making Castiel scowl.

“Is this about your show?”

“Screw the show too.” Dean takes a shuddering breath, rubbing his temples. “Look, man, just…” He looks up, turning a pair of clear green eyes on him, and Castiel is caught off-guard. “You know I’m gonna go anyway but it’d mean a lot if it was on a good note with you. Two days, maybe three and I’ll be back on the job with you. It’s not like you ain’t used to working alone.”

Castiel’s brow furrows unhappily, and Dean is obviously guilt tripping, but being aware of it doesn’t change a thing. He’s more than capable of hunting by himself—he’s done it for years, after all—but he’s getting used to having a partner. He works better with Dean—better than the sum of their individual efforts combined. No point kidding himself; he enjoys hunting with Dean. It makes the hunt fun again.

Dean’s sudden resolve to leave isn’t a personal slap in the face as much as it is a reminder that they aren’t partners, not really. It’s becoming easier to forget that as their cases go on. He feels a stab of irritation, and he kids himself that it’s just irritation with no feelings of sadness in there too; not for the first time, he wonders why Dean is tagging along with him at all. “How are you planning on getting to Texas?” he asks at last.

“Just drop me off here. I’ll hitchhike to the last town we passed and get a bus from there.”

Castiel looks at him incredulously. “I’ll drive you back,” he says, already scanning the empty road for somewhere to turn around. “It’s the least I can do, considering you’ll wind up tracking a rabbit plague somewhere in Maine if I leave you unattended any longer than I need to.”

A month ago, Castiel would have left him by the roadside without a second thought, and Dean knows that. He smiles wryly, in spite of the vexation in Castiel’s voice. “You don’t have to do that, man.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

Dean smiles harder. They turn the car around.

* * *

 

Castiel hasn’t visited a zoo since he was twelve. There’s a fond memory in there somewhere about Anna taking him and Samandriel to one during one of their parents’ prolonged absences. She had bought them ice creams, and they had wandered throughout the exhibits on a tour while one of the zookeepers talked to them about the different animals they were seeing. A day out with his family, full of questions and laughter and things not complicated.

The zoo is closed for the evening when he arrives, and as he leaves the car in one of the parking spaces and sets out, following the directions in the email Dean has forwarded him, it’s like an inversion of that happy memory. Where once, he had seen the paths and enclosures as something to be delighted in, now they are a foreboding, the long shadows cast by almost-setting sun giving the whole place an aura of eeriness that makes the hair on his neck prickle.

Their client—although it hardly seems appropriate to call him that—is a man named Brock Riley, and his home is located right in the middle of the zoo itself, with the bottom floor of the building being used as an admin centre with living quarters upstairs. The instructions on how to get there are in the email, which Castiel has copied into his notepad because he still hasn’t bought himself a decent phone, and the walk feels longer than it should, skirting around animal enclosures along a winding path. None of the animals are visible; either they’re sleeping or it’s too dark, or they’re put somewhere else at night. The intricacies of running a zoo aren’t something he’s ever been required to memorise.

He’s never spared a thought for the humanity of zoos themselves, but he does now. As somebody who hunts down and kills creatures for a living, he’s not in a position to judge, but the idea of keeping animals locked away for their entire lives seems…abnormal, counterintuitive. Decapitating a vampire that’s been killing people, he can get behind, no problem. Keeping an elephant in a pen to be gawked at by children? Not so much.

The thought is pushed aside as the admin centre comes into sight, a tall building illuminated by external light bulbs. He’s not here to debate the ethics of keeping animals in zoos. He’s here because an animal in a zoo was violently killed last night and he intends to put a stop to it.

The door is glass but the blinds are drawn. He bangs on it. “Mr. Riley, you’re expecting me. I’m—from _Supernatural_ ,” he says, feeling like some kind of pest control service.

Riley must have been waiting near the door because there’s a scattering sound on the other side followed by footsteps, a short click, and then the door is being pulled open to reveal a dark-skinned man of medium height with a mess of thick black hair and glasses.

They stare at each other.

“Dean?” Riley asks at last, his voice hoarse.

Castiel falters. “No, I’m Castiel.”

Riley blinks, looking past him with apparent unease. Castiel notices a line of salt in front of the doorframe. “Dean said he’d be coming.”

This is _Hound of the Baskervilles_ , and Castiel is definitely Watson.

* * *

 

“It’s…quite a place here” is Castiel’s first attempt at making conversation. It’s been good having Dean around; usually, if conversation is necessary to break any ice, he can leave it to him. “How long have you been running it?”

“Nine years.”

“Hard work?”

“Yeah, man, but it’s worth it,” Riley says. “I’ve wanted to take care of animals all my life.” He chuckles slightly. “My parents wanted me to get a desk job. I’m a haemophiliac; they worry about me hurting myself.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. That’s rough. “It’s…good to see you’re still doing what you want to do,” he says, hoping it comes across okay.

The non-monstery conversation seems to settle him somewhat, but it’s obvious from the beginning that Riley is shaken. He shows Castiel to a small room behind the desk, where the security cameras are monitored from, and Castiel gets a glimpse at a live feed of each enclosure before they properly get down to discussing facts.

Today is Thursday. The first incident happened on Monday night, and the lioness was found dead in her enclosure only minutes after the incident had happened.

“I woke up, and there was this…roar.” Riley shudders, shaking his head sadly. “Ran all the way there and there she was, in pieces.” He rubs his temples, clearly traumatised. “The other lions, they were all around her. My security guard arrived a minute after I did, and I had to tranquilise the rest of them before we could get her body out.”

Castiel’s lips purse. “I’m sorry.”

“The security cameras were all blank around that enclosure,” Riley goes on, moving over to the computer while Castiel folds his arms, looking over his shoulder. “Nothing but static. I know I probably…should have called the police right then, but I mean…the sort of thing that can do that to an adult lioness? She wasn’t shot or stabbed, she was torn to shreds. If I reported it to the police they’d have assumed the other lions were responsible and left it at that, but lions don’t leave wounds like that.”

He turns to look at Castiel, his face morbid and serious. “I thought it might have been something…I mean, I’ve been listening to Dean’s show for years but I never thought I’d see…”

Castiel feels uncertain, but he places a hand upon his shoulder, patting awkwardly. It’s easier to comfort people when he can still tell them there’s nothing out there to worry about. “You tried to…figure out what it might have been?”

“I closed the place to guests and hit the books, all of Tuesday. The _Supernatural_ website is one hell of a database, but it doesn’t have a lot to say about attacks on animals.”

“It’s not something we see a lot of; attacks on humans are more widely reported.”

Riley waves a hand, frowning. “Don’t get me wrong, I knew it was a long shot, but I had a few theories—thought it might’ve been one of those bunyips at first, but I scrapped that idea ‘cause there’s nowhere it could’ve hidden. You ever find out what that one was doing in the states?” he asks suddenly.

“Not yet.” Castiel doesn’t want to talk about it; he’s hit a dead-end on bunyip leads, and Dean doesn’t seem keen to pursue it, not when he’s busy Googling witches and investigating flu outbreaks. “What did you find when you were researching?”

“Ghost was on my list, but man, I don’t know anyone dead or alive who would’ve wanted to hurt my animals. Me, yeah, ‘cause there’s always folks out there against zoos, but the animals? They’re not hurting anyone.”

Castiel nods in understanding. “And there was no attack on Tuesday night?”

“I was in town until late—had a staff member at the place keeping watch. When I got back, I checked the place over and went to bed; everything was as it should be.”

“What time did you get back?”

“About one o’clock.”

Castiel considers this. “What about the first attack, what time did it happen?”

“Just after midnight.”

He makes a note of it for later. “Alright, the wolves. Anything more you can tell me?”

Riley slumps dejectedly, rubbing his face again. “I dunno why the cameras were suddenly working, maybe she forgot about scrambling them, but whatever the reason, there was footage this time. Hell, I sent it to Dean once I was sure it was real. Or, I don’t know, unreal. He’s talked a lot about ghosts, and it fit all the signs; I thought he could give me a sort of…professional opinion.”

Castiel has to give him points for contacting Dean and not trying to do it himself—even more for contacting Dean over the Ghostfacers, who would have been more than happy to tear halfway across the country from their base in Wisconsin for a case like this. “You have no idea who this woman could possibly be?”

“None at all.” Riley gestures to the computer screen. “I had my employees put salt around all the enclosures today; no way are more of my animals dying on my watch. The staff all reckon I’m crazy, but that’s okay. Anyway, I spent most of today trying to figure out who it was I was dealing with, see if I could find out where she was buried—I know Dean says to burn the remains—and it turned up nada.”

“Can you pull up the picture of her again?”

Castiel unfolds his arms, staring at the computer screen as Riley opens a screenshot of the security video, showing the ghost just as she appears when the initial static has worn off.

Riley has, apparently, done a lot of his work for him. It shouldn’t be too hard a case to finish; he just has to identify the ghost. How hard can that be when he already has a picture? She is dark haired, short, and wears a jumper and slacks. Much of her clothing is ripped and torn as well, dried blood staining her back and her hair and her limbs. She clearly died violently—perhaps she is re-enacting her own traumatic death on the animals as a means of coping with it herself.

But why the animals, and not one of the people in the zoo at night, like security or Riley himself? And why have the attacks only just started?

“The best thing we can do to work on identifying her is to work out why her spirit is haunting your zoo in the first place,” Castiel says. “She’s tied to this place, either through remains or an object or from something that happened here.” If it had happened before, Castiel would have suspected she’d died in the zoo and was now buried somewhere in it, perhaps in secret, but as things are, he’s left floundering for answers. _Something_ changed three days ago that means her spirit is suddenly killing animals here. “Did anything new come to the zoo on Monday—a new animal, maybe? Something that could have killed her?”

Riley looks thoughtful, but he shakes his head. Castiel tries not to feel disappointed. Of course it won’t be that easy.

“If she’s attached to an object, it could’ve been dropped by a guest,” Riley suggests. Castiel raises his head, considering.

“She could even have visited the zoo herself,” he agrees, thoughtful. “Left a bit of DNA somewhere and been killed somewhere else only to become connected to the zoo.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking. In either case, it means that somewhere in the zoo is their object. Finding it simply by searching will be impossible, especially in the dark, but perhaps they can compare where the lion and wolf enclosures are to narrow their search. Still impractical.

“I’ll look for any deaths occurring on Monday that match the woman’s wounds and appearance,” he says at last. It will be a starting point, and he can expand his search from there. “I’d advise you send your staff home and sleep somewhere other than the zoo tonight.” He looks at Riley with a serious expression. “Just to be on the safe side.”

“I’m not leaving my animals,” Riley says simply, shaking his head. “I’ve put salt around the house; it’ll be safe in here, but I need to be at the zoo in case something goes wrong.”

Castiel hates stubbornness even as he respects it. He doesn’t like the idea of leaving anyone in this zoo tonight, human or otherwise, but to move the animals would be impossible and now, it seems, so would moving Riley. “I’ll give you my phone number,” he says at last, scribbling it on a page of his notepad and tearing it off. “If you find anything or think of anything else, let me know. I’ll do the same for you.”

“Appreciate it, man.” Riley looks at the number for a brief moment before stuffing the paper into his pocket. “Does this mean you’re leaving?”

“I’ll be in touch,” Castiel says, looking around the room one more time in case there’s something he’s forgotten.

Riley shows him to the way out. “Is Dean gonna show up on this case?” he asks, and Castiel doesn’t know what to say, because he can hardly tell him that Dean has bailed on his case to go to Texas.

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Castiel scratches the back of his neck, and he really doesn’t. “He…said to give you his deepest apologies for not being able to make it. Something…very important to him came up; he wouldn’t have failed to show for anything less. He is sorry; he asked me to tell you that.”

“Just so long as we stop this ghost.”

“We’ll get your ghost,” Castiel says. “That much I do know.”

* * *

 

It takes Castiel far too long to find somewhere to stay for the night. The drive to get back to central Bozeman where he has hope of finding a motel at short notice is half an hour, followed by a string of ‘no vacancies’ before he lands himself in a room. It’s more expensive than he would have liked, but he’d be lying through his teeth if he tried to say that the prospect of a freshly laundered double bed all to himself as well as a bathroom that doesn’t have mould between its tiles is an unappealing one. There is even free Wi-Fi, more than he can say for the standard of accommodation he usually settles for.

It is on the second floor, which makes him uneasy; it’s harder to leave the second floor in an emergency.

After several trips back and forth from the Impala end with a small pile of bags strewn over the bed, he sets to work on compiling what he knows so far about his case, and by the time he finishes that, it’s pushing eight o’clock.

Dean will still be on the road, or forced to stop for the night, which means he won’t be recording a new episode. Castiel pictures him seated in the back row of a bus, tapping away at his keyboard or staring out the window, lost in thought. Castiel opens Dean’s blog on his computer, expecting to see an update about where he’s going. Surprisingly, however, there’s nothing; the most recent entry is a run-down of the case they had finished last night, the Chupacabra. With a frown, Castiel closes his laptop. That doesn’t seem like Dean.

The motel offers room service, and he orders himself a curry, because he’s going all-out. At least this way he doesn’t have to find somewhere else for dinner. He sets down the motel phone with a frown, drumming his fingers.

He texts Dean.

_Found a motel. Case going okay, will keep you posted. Where are you now? C_

No reply comes. When no reply has continued to come for several minutes, Castiel gives up, shoving his phone back into his pocket.

For a ghost with an apparently obvious cause of death and a description to boot, his Jane Doe is proving surprisingly difficult to pin down, at least from a local search. Her wounds and target victims suggest she died in an animal attack, but there’s no record of any such attack on a woman who fits the profile in or around Bozeman.

He rubs a hand over his face, trying to think. If he can’t find a matching death, perhaps a missing person whose death was never confirmed. That would make things a little harder, but it needs looking into. There’s a lot left to do before tomorrow.

At eleven o’clock, he goes to bed.

* * *

 

At two o’clock, he wakes up.

“Wake up,” Dean says.

Castiel is good at waking up, he really is. He can go from fast asleep to hunting mode in under a minute and he’s proud of that fact. That doesn’t mean he appreciates being woken at two in the morning when he’s running on barely enough sleep to keep his brain ticking as it is. “Fucking hell,” he says, his voice sour. Dean saves him the trouble of turning on a light by doing it for him.

“Sorry about that, Cas.” Now that he’s sitting up, Castiel realises that something is different about Dean. His usually bright green eyes are downcast, overshadowed. He looks _smaller_. Lost.

“What are you doing here?” Castiel demands, legs hanging off the side of the bed and rubbing his face to work some feeling back into it. He checks the time. “I thought you were going to Texas.”

“I did. I’m back now.”

“It’s been…” It’s too early for maths. “Eighteen hours. How did you get here so fast?”

“I flew.”

“You hate flying.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“How’d you find this place?”

“Saw the Impala in the parking lot.”

Castiel’s initial temper is wearing off. “Are you alright, Dean?” he asks, irritation replaced by concern. “You look like hell.”

“It’s been a long day, man.” Dean takes a shuddering breath, sitting down in the room’s armchair opposite, and Castiel brushes hair out of his face. “I thought I was on to something, but…” He laughs dryly. “I wasn’t. Didn’t need to stay in Kermit long to know what I was looking for wasn’t there.”

And that should be setting alarm bells off in his head, because Dean didn’t go to Kermit to look for something—he went because he thought the supposed miracle cures were the beginnings of a case, or so he said. The alarm bells aren’t there, though; they are nothing but a faint chime, dulled either by sleep or out of concern for the man before him. He registers that something is off about what Dean has said, realises what it means, and pushes it aside for later.

He goes to the fridge, and Dean watches him wordlessly as he fetches a bottle of beer, offering it to him. If anyone could use a drink, it’s Dean. Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t drink it. He just holds it, turning it over in his hands.

“Did you figure out what happened with the flu strain?”

“It’s as weird as they said.” Dean finally opens his bottle of beer, and Castiel watches in a mixture of awe and worry as the man downs the entire thing in one long drink. He fiddles with the empty bottle, like he needs something to do with his hands. “The doctors I spoke to swore that the patients they admitted were sick. Like, really sick. More and more started coming in over the next week until there were more than twenty of ‘em. They were kept isolated but none of the medicine they had was working. It looked like they were gonna start dying soon, but then…overnight, wham, like magic; all of them were cured. They woke up the next day and there was nothing wrong with ‘em at all.”

 _So why did you come back?_ Castiel lowers his head slightly to look Dean in the eyes. “What were you looking for, Dean?” he asks softly.

Dean laughs again. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?” He tosses his beer bottle across the room, where it lands in the bin beside the door with near-perfect precision. “How’s this case here going? Found the ghost yet?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow, but his mind goes back to what he’d been looking at before going to bed. “I don’t know who she is,” he said at last. “There are no reported deaths or missing persons around here that fit the profile—and I’ve looked back over ten years’ worth of records. I think she’s attached to an object somewhere in the zoo that was left there either by accident or on purpose. Riley doesn’t know about anything new that was brought in, but with the amount of guests he gets every day there’s a lot of ground to cover; it could be a few hairs snagged on a fern.”

“I guess we’re playing crime scene investigators tomorrow,” Dean says.

“I guess so.” Castiel studies him carefully, trying to discern how best to approach him. For whatever reason, he cares about Dean a lot, and he may not be a ‘spill your feelings’ kind of guy, but he can’t help him if he lets this go.

“Dean…really, what’s going on here?” he asks, looking at him with sincerity. “You didn’t just go all the way to Texas and back for a case. I want to help you; what aren’t you telling me?”

“There’s a lot I’m not telling you,” Dean mutters, standing and getting another beer from the fridge. Castiel folds his arms as Dean downs his second bottle with the same alacrity of his first. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Because I’m a hunter?”

“Because you’re human,” Dean snaps, and Castiel knows he’s lashing out. “Because nobody gets it, so why the hell would you?”

He’s silent for a moment. Castiel doesn’t answer at first, but Dean continues regardless. “I don’t need your help.”

“I’m offering it anyway.” Castiel reaches forward, carefully prying the empty beer bottle from Dean’s unresisting fingers, and he realises the man is shaking. “Dean, I don’t know you. I don’t know shit about you, you don’t know shit about me, but I’m fairly certain we’re friends. If you’re searching for something, you don’t have to do it alone.”

Dean looks at him helplessly. “I can’t,” he says, his voice hoarse and quiet. “I gotta do this myself, Cas. I’m sorry.”

“Dean—”

Castiel has been through a lot in his life. In between all the times he’s been stabbed, choked, shot, bitten and chained to all manner of objects and very nearly been killed by most of the things he meets, he likes to think he’s learnt how to predict abnormal behaviour. He can face a werewolf head-on without flinching and he can tell when somebody is bullshitting him. He knows monsters and he knows people.

The kiss is a surprise, though.

He’s only momentarily taken aback by the sudden press of Dean’s lips against his own, and the motion is sloppy with inexperience and desperation but Dean’s lips are soft and warm, and they’re drawing him in. Castiel raises his hands instinctively, going to rest tentatively upon the crook of Dean’s neck, and he thinks he might have been going to push him away but as soon as they’re there, he realises he doesn’t want to. Dean’s scent is everywhere, and Castiel has never realised it before, but he smells nice, like the air just as it promises the raw power of a coming thunderstorm.

He hasn’t been kissing back, and he realises this when Dean pulls away abruptly.

“Fuck.”

There’s no way of knowing which of them actually said the word. He hardly thinks it matters.

“Fuck.”

Although that one was definitely Castiel.

“Dammit, I’m sorry.” Dean’s voice is low, mortified, and he takes a further step back, Castiel’s hand slipping loosely from his shoulder. “I don’t know why I did that.”

It’s easy to tell that Dean is about to disappear again, and Castiel reaches forward, grabbing his arm gently, just enough to stop him walking away. “Dean—”

“I’m in a—bad headspace.”

“I can see that.”

“I’ll go.”

“Don’t.” Castiel fixes him with a steady blue gaze, and Dean is a rabbit caught in headlights, not sure which way to run, and Castiel doesn’t know how much of his fear is to do with him and how much is because of losing whatever he failed to find today but he knows he can’t leave him like this. “Dean, it’s okay. You just need some sleep.”

Dean shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand enough.” Tentatively, Castiel releases his hold on Dean’s arm, giving it an awkward but reassuring pat. “Now you just…stay here, I’ll get another room, and we can talk about this when you’ve rested, alright?”

There’s no physical trembling affecting Dean’s body now, but Castiel can see it all the same. Dean is shaken. Dean Winchester, steadfast and tireless, is scared, and Castiel is all he has to turn to. “Cas,” he rasps, gripping his arm, “I don’t sleep.”

It has always been somewhere in the back of Castiel’s mind that Dean might be a chronic insomniac. He never sees him sleep, he works all hours into the night, and Castiel is no stranger to sleeplessness. If he’s honest with himself, he knows there’s nothing he can do to help Dean, not in that way. Maybe they’ll visit a doctor once this case is over. Right now, he knows that simply tucking the man into bed isn’t what he needs. “I’ll stay up, then. Or I can leave you alone, if that’s what you need.”

Dean looks away, and Castiel sees him swallow.

“I’ll stay,” Castiel concludes.

“You don’t have to do that, Cas.”

 _Yes I do. You’re full of shit_. “I’ll make you coffee,” he says, patting Dean’s arm one more time before brushing past him to the kitchenette. Maybe what Dean needs is more alcohol. He doesn’t offer him any. “Cream and sugar, right?”

“You should get some sleep, Cas. I’m not gonna keep you up.”

“Probably should’ve thought about that before you woke me.” There’s no malice in Castiel’s voice as he turns on the kettle, setting an empty mug on the counter and adding a sachet of ground coffee beans. When he turns back to Dean, he hasn’t moved.

“Look, I—thanks, but I don’t need coffee.”

“What do you need?”

Dean doesn’t answer, but he comes closer, and for a second, Castiel thinks he’s going to kiss him again. Then his eyes are downcast and Castiel can’t see the expression on his face but he can see grief in everywhere that matters; in the hunch of his shoulders and in the way his muscles are stiff and shaking and lifeless all at once. When Castiel reaches forward, wrapping both arms around the man’s waist and pulling him into a tight hug, it’s the most natural motion in the world.

Castiel holds him, and Dean isn’t crying, and he doesn’t return the hug any more than Castiel did the kiss, and he’s stiff as a board in his arms, and Castiel holds him tighter.

He’s not sure when Dean’s arms curl around him as well, and when Dean’s chin falls limply to his shoulder, but when he does, he gives him a gentle squeeze. Castiel’s eyes trail down Dean’s back, one hand stroking it gently, and the only thing he can smell is ozone.

Dean is beautiful. Has always been beautiful. Right now, he is stripped of all his layers of secrets and snark and sarcasm, and all that’s left is Dean Winchester, and he is beautiful.

And Dean Winchester is a broken man, lost and searching, but he’s not alone. He doesn’t have to be and he doesn’t want to be, in spite of whatever he’s been trying to tell himself.

“It’s okay,” Castiel murmurs gently, and Dean takes a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I’m sorry, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“Sam,” Dean says, barely a whisper.

Castiel holds him.

* * *

 

“Katrice Brown.”

“Excuse me?”

“Morning, Cas.”

Castiel doesn’t know why he’s surprised that Dean is no longer in bed. In all the weeks they’ve known each other, Dean has always been seated in front of his computer in the middle of researching by the time Castiel wakes up. Why should this morning be any different?

“Good morning,” he mumbles, sitting up. Dean launches into speech before Castiel has a chance to say more.

“I did some research last night,” he explains, turning his computer so that Castiel can see it. It’s too far to make out what’s on the screen. “I was thinking about what you said about somebody leaving a haunted object in the zoo, and I thought, if somebody had the remains that the ghost was attached to and they somehow figured out what was going on but didn’t know how to get rid of the ghost, they’d try and get rid of the remains right away, right? By leaving them somewhere far enough so that the ghost can’t reach them any more.”

Castiel isn’t quite sure he follows, but he’s certain he will in a moment. “Alright?”

“So if you had an object you knew came along with a violent ghost attached to it, and you had to get rid of it, you’d probably give it to somebody you didn’t like. I poked around for anyone who might’ve had a grudge against Brock Riley and look what I found.”

Dean clearly wants him to come over, but Castiel doesn’t want to look at what he found. They haven’t finished their conversation from last night.

If it can be called a conversation. In reality, it was a few minutes of hugging with Castiel whispering tender reassurances into his ear followed by maybe half an hour of the most awkward cuddling he had experienced in his life. Awkward, in that Dean had suddenly dragged them both over to the bed, saying something about how he needed to sleep, and pushed him inelegantly onto the mattress without moving to get up again. The two of them had lain like that; Castiel with his arms around Dean, Dean lying across his chest with his head upon his shoulder.

Castiel hadn’t protested; the few times he’d attempted to speak had not been requests for Dean to move. These attempts were met with mumbles and aversion, and Castiel let him stay, because Dean didn’t want to be alone and didn’t know how else to ask for it. He knows the signs.

So they’d stayed like that, and maybe it had been awkward but it hadn’t been bad, especially when the minutes ticked on and Castiel realised that Dean was waiting for him to fall asleep. Eventually, it seems, he had done so, too tired to do anything else and leaving an analysis of what was happening to the morning, to now. It had even been nice; Castiel hasn’t fallen asleep with another person in…upwards of five years.

There’s also the name Dean said—‘Sam’. Castiel doesn’t know who they are, doesn’t even know if they are a man or a woman. A relative? Lover?

He hasn’t tried to ask, but he’s starting to think that maybe he should. If Dean was a little drunk last night, he isn’t anymore.

Castiel goes over to him, sitting down at the table opposite him, and Dean turns the computer to face him. “Katrice Brown, from Missoula, Montana. She and her husband ran a zoo there for twenty years until 2012, when a visitor started writing to the council that their animal care standards were inhumane. He got a petition going, and eventually the Montana government looked into it and in January of this year, it revoked their permit; the Browns were ordered to get rid of their animals and shut the place down. The guest who started the lobby? Brock Riley.”

“How do they tie into our case?” Castiel asks, looking at the article Dean is showing him.

Dean pulls his computer back. “Katrice Brown never got to see her zoo shut down,” he says, typing something quickly, “because the day after they got the order, she was found dead in the lion enclosure. Locked herself in and got ripped to shreds; a suicide. Wanna see her picture?”

The woman in the image Dean shows him is in her early fifties, but she is small and petite, with dark black hair. He never saw the face of the ghost who killed the wolf, but if Castiel didn’t know any better, and he doesn’t, he would have hedged a bet that this was the same woman. “She didn’t want to leave her zoo.”

“I guess not. Anyway, let’s say her husband blamed Riley for her death and…I dunno, left some part of her in the middle of his zoo as a kind of sick memento. She gets her ghostly shit together, starts haunting the place and remembering how she died, starts attacking animals. Hell, she even started with the lions.”

“Dean.”

“We’re onto something. We can track down her husband today, get him to spill the beans, and then this whole thing—”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel repeats, and Dean looks up sharply, as if realising that Castiel doesn’t want to talk about their case.

His jaw clenches. “Yeah?”

They stare at each other for a long time, and Castiel isn’t sure if he wants to kiss him or shake him.  “Are you okay?”

“I’m awesome. We’re not gonna have a _talk_ , are we?” It sounds like a sneer, but there’s a twinge of uncertainty.

Castiel puts up his hands, palms out. “Last night—”

“—Was uncomfortable, I _get_ it. I’d had a bit to drink. Can we please forget it happened? I want to finish this case, if you don’t mind. Isn’t that your job?”

“My job is to help people.” Castiel cocks his head, frowning. “Dean, I’m not your therapist, but I’m not an idiot. I’ve seen how this path ends. You try and shoulder whatever your burden is by yourself, and you just can’t, because it _breaks_ you.”

Heaving a breath, Dean closes his computer, pushing it aside and rubbing his face with his hands. Honestly, Castiel isn’t expecting any kind of heart-felt confession—that just isn’t Dean—but if there’s anything to be gained by trying then he will. “Who’s Sam, Dean?” he asks, and Dean tenses.

“He’s my brother,” he says at last, staring down at the closed lid of his laptop.

“Is he dead?”

Dean glances up, and for a long moment, neither of them speaks.

“No,” Dean says at last.

Castiel’s face crumples into something softer. “This brother, he’s…missing?”

Dean nods stiffly. “He’s the reason I do what I do, Cas. He’s…” Suddenly, Dean is smiling. A real, genuine smile, full of pride, but he’s staring at nothing. Nothing but a memory. “He pissed off our family—he does that a lot. And they…they’re a jealous kind of family. They tried to have him killed.”

Castiel starts. Dean keeps talking in a rush. “So he’s running away from them, and that means he’s running away from me too. I started my show because…well, I thought if I made it popular enough, he’d hear about it, wherever he was. He was always into monsters and stuff. I keep…leaving messages in the show, trying to tell him to contact me, that it’s okay, that I’m not—I’m not gonna hurt him. That I’d never hurt him.”

There’s a lot still left untold, but things are starting to fall into place. About _Supernatural_ , about Dean and his relentless determination to keep doing what he does. He’s searching for Sam, trying to get the word out to him. It’s been five years since Dean started the show. Just how long has Sam been missing?

Castiel feels a pang of sympathy in his chest. He knows what it’s like to lose a brother. He knows what it’s like to lose a family in the process. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I am too.” Dean swallows, drumming his fingers on the table. “So…so that’s why. I’ve got a job to do and I’m gonna do it if it kills me. I have to find him, Cas. I…I have to. He’s my responsibility.”

“Why did you think he was in Kermit?”

Dean shrugs, still staring downwards. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t find him.” He looks up, noticing Castiel’s expression, and he breaks into a scowl. “Don’t give me pity, man, I’m begging you. I don’t want your pity.”

“I get it,” Castiel says, shaking his head, and on impulse, he reaches forwards, grabbing Dean’s hand. Dean doesn’t flinch. “I’m not going to insult you by suggesting you need my help, Dean, but I—Dean, I get it, and I am sorry.”

The expression on Dean’s face changes slightly. “Who did you lose?” he asks, his voice measured but soft.

“My brother.” Castiel lets go of Dean’s hand, fingers balling into a fist on the surface of the table.  Perhaps they’re more alike than he’d thought. “Samandriel. He was…fourteen.”

“What happened?” Dean asks, tilting his head slightly.

And just like that, Castiel is spilling his life story. “I was nineteen, in my second year at college—I was already living on my own but my parents were away from home a lot, and my sister and I mostly took care of Samandriel ourselves.” A lump rises in his throat. “It was a…Friday, I think. I went to pick him up from school, but…he wasn’t there. I tried calling him, and then when that didn’t work, I called Anna, and she didn’t know either.”

A tremor has entered Castiel’s voice. He hasn’t told this story in years, pushed away to the back of his mind, because imagining his brother’s last moments knowing what he knows now is too sickening, even for him.

“I called the police. They found his body in this empty house the next day. He’d been stabbed, and I—” He broke off sharply, taking a deep breath. “We never found out what happened to him. Someone killed him, just like that. Except then we buried him, and afterwards…” He looks at Dean, his expression serious. “He came back. And he…tried to kill me.”

“Ghost or zombie?” Dean asks quietly.

“He was killed by a shapeshifter.” Castiel looks away, sitting back in his chair and staring at nothing. “Some kind of sick-minded, sadistic, serial killer shapeshifter. It had been taking kids from my brother’s school by impersonating a family member and then picking them up. When it killed Samandriel, he thought it was _me_. He thought I killed him.”

“So he…wanted revenge.”

“He wanted closure,” Castiel says. “But he was a ghost, and ghosts aren’t rational. What happened after he died was not his fault. I would have—I would have told him what happened, but I didn’t know what was going on. He’d died more than two months earlier and suddenly he was there, in my house, accusing me of murdering him. I didn’t know…I thought…”

“It wasn’t your fault, Cas.”

“Who the fuck cares? He died. If I’d picked him up five minutes earlier he probably wouldn’t have, but that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that my fourteen year old brother’s last memory is being told by somebody he believed in that he was better off dead.”

He’s breathing heavily now, trying to keep it in, although what, he doesn’t know. The memory is still too fresh, and it hurts. God, it _hurts_ , because it hadn’t just been losing his brother, it had been feeling the temperature drop and then seeing him in the living room, flickering, pointing a finger at him in accusation.

Samandriel had told him what happened when he died. Told him in vivid detail; when he realised the car wasn’t taking them home, when the man he had thought to be his brother had pulled out the knife, all of the things he had said, about how he was weak, and a liability, and he had believed them. He had believed every word.

Then he died. Castiel wanted to die as well.

Except Samandriel didn’t kill him. Even after refusing to believe Castiel when he said he hadn’t done it, he hadn’t been able to kill him, because Samandriel was _good_. He was a better man than Castiel has ever been.

Dean is still watching him, unmoving, and Castiel folds his arms. “I don’t know why he didn’t just kill me—I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. But instead he just…he asked me to burn his body, and then he disappeared.”

To this day, he still doesn’t know how Samandriel knew to do that. He certainly hadn’t known it at the time. He was no hunter back then.

Dean stares at him. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

“I didn’t burn his bones,” Castiel says, at though Dean hasn’t spoken. “I thought I’d been hallucinating—hell, I went and saw a doctor and he put me onto antipsychotics. He thought it was some kind of coping mechanism, that I blamed myself and I missed Samandriel and this was my way of helping myself.” He chuckled darkly. “Can you believe that? Imagining the angry spirit of my brother as a way of dealing with his death. Don’t know why I believed him, but I did. I started taking the medication, I even moved back into my parents’ house, and for a while, I was fine. Then I saw him again. He asked me to burn his body again, and I…I wasn’t hallucinating, it was really him. I just _knew_.”

“Did you? Burn his body, I mean.”

“I thought…I thought he could…stick around somehow. You know, like a kind of…friendly ghost. He was dead, but we didn’t have to lose him just yet.” He sighs. What a beautiful fantasy. “I told Anna and my parents that I’d seen him. I thought I could make them understand. They…well, they behaved like you’d expect. They thought I just needed time to come to terms with his death. After that, I kept seeing him more and more frequently, and each time I did, he begged me, Dean. Begged me to put him to rest, and I just _couldn’t_. I was too emotional about it. I tried to tell him we could make it work somehow. Then a knife flew out of the knife block and hit me in the back, and Samandriel disappeared.”

It had hit him handle first, and whether that was deliberate or not, he’d never known. Either way, the message was clear. Whatever was happening to Samandriel, he was losing himself, more and more each day. He was getting violent, and he just wanted it to be over.

“After that, I drove to the cemetery and I burned his bones. I came home that night, and…my mother and father were there. They told me they’d arranged for some professional help, and they wanted me to go back onto the antipsychotics…they just wouldn’t listen to me.” He stiffens. “So I ran. Changed my last name, dropped out of college and hit the road. Next thing I knew I was hunting a wraith in New York with a woman named Meg, and now…now I’m here.”

Dean is silent for what feels like an eternity. Castiel is silent too; both of them just sit, apparently lost in thought, neither saying a word.

He never blamed his parents for thinking what they’d thought. Anna had been more accepting, but even she hadn’t believed his story, and why should she? They were just people. Good, kind people who cared about him and wanted to make sure he was okay. Castiel was never running from them; he’s always been running from himself, from the life he’d once had. It’s difficult to go back to that, knowing what he knows now about the world and what inhabits it.

It’s Dean who finally speaks. He gets to his feet, picking up his computer. “You and me,” he says, “both need a really strong drink.”

Castiel snorts, smoothing flat the crumpled clothes he is still wearing from yesterday. Finally, an idea he can get behind.

Not right now, though. Right now they’ve got a case to solve.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he says, standing up abruptly. “Why don’t you order us something to eat?”

“Good idea,” Dean says, and Castiel swears he hears him sigh.

* * *

 

After hurriedly getting dressed and having an equally hurried breakfast, the two of them split up. Dean will go to visit Riley and begin searching the zoo for…something. Castiel will track down Katrice’s husband.

“Riley will like that,” Castiel says. “He was disappointed yesterday when he didn’t get a chance to meet you.”

Dean looks like he wants to wave it off, but he can’t resist basking in it for a moment. “What can I say? I’m awesome.”

“Yeah, you are.”

They both smile.

“I wrote down Kenneth Brown’s address,” Dean says, straightening up from the table and handing Castiel a sheet of paper with a rough map drawn on it. “I’d find it on Google Maps for you if your phone wasn’t from the middle ages.”

Castiel accepts the paper, frowning. “This is in Bozeman.”

“Yeah, apparently he moved here after selling the zoo. Probably wanted to get away from the place where his wife died.”

“Pretty big coincidence.”

“Maybe.”

At least now he won’t have to make the three-hour drive to Missoula. It’ll give him some more time to get ready. “Call me if you find anything?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll see you later.”

* * *

 

Castiel wears his trench coat over a suit, but it’s not FBI he’s working himself up to posing as when he finds himself entering the small apartment block that Dean has assured him is the address of Kenneth Brown. He looks over his shoulder once with a frown before he goes in. The trip up in the elevator is a silent one.

It’s a small place to live for somebody who until recently has run a zoo. Perhaps he needed a change of scenery after his wife died. He’s careful to keep his expression neutral as he finally knocks on the door.

The man who answers it looks at him with suspicion before Castiel has so much as said a word. Castiel holds out his hand. “Mr. Brown, my name is Clarence, I’m a representative of PETA.”

The door is shut in his face. He probably should have chosen a different approach, but it’s too late now, and he’s not above using intimidation. He puts his foot in the doorway. “I just need to ask you a couple of questions.”

“How do you know where I live?” Brown snaps, glaring at him as he backs away from the door. “I’m calling 911.”

Castiel holds up his hands. “Please, wait, I just want to talk to you—”

“I’ve talked to enough of your people,” Brown says. “What do you want this time? To gloat?”

“Your wife died last month,” Castiel says, opening the door properly but not following him into the apartment. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“No, you’re not.” Brown makes to turn around, but he pauses, staring at the ground for a second and frowning. “What do you want?”

“There have been some animal deaths in a local zoo,” Castiel says, cutting to the chase. “I believe you’re familiar with the owner; his name is Brock Riley.”

Brown’s eyes narrow slightly. “Brock Riley? Yeah, I know him. What of it?”

Castiel cocks his head, analysing. He doesn’t appear to be reacting like he knows something about Riley that he shouldn’t. There’s suspicion, yes, but his suspicion is justified. He doubts zookeepers have a lot of good encounters with groups like PETA, and Brown has just lost his zoo on grounds of animal cruelty. Perhaps he’s had more encounters than most. “Do you know anything that might have contributed to the deaths of those animals, Mr. Brown?”

“Brock Riley is a bad keeper? Why are you asking me?”

“They were killed in a very violent manner.”

“And you think I had something to do with it.” Brown laughs, turning away. “Kid, get out of here. I don’t know what you want but you’re not from PETA.”

“I’m—”

“Wearing leather shoes? Come on, look at you; you’re no vegan. I want to know what you’re doing in my house. Are you from the FBI?”

“Why would I be from the FBI?”

Brown doesn’t answer, and Castiel glances down at himself. Perhaps he’s not as fool proof as he’d envisioned. That hardly matters now; he’s more focused on the cell phone that Brown is currently pulling from his pocket. It takes him a few seconds to weigh up his options; if he does nothing the police will come, but if he stops him, Brown is going to yell, draw attention, and then call the police as soon as he leaves. Besides, they are in Montana; he can’t afford to anger somebody who could very well own a gun.

His only real option is talking. Fuck. “I want you to tell me about your wife, Mr. Brown,” he says evenly, taking a step forward and closing the door behind him. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“ _What_?” Brown demands, real anger in his voice. He takes a few steps back, hastily looking down at his phone, and Castiel’s hand darts forward, yanking it out of his grip. So much for simply talking.

“Answer the question,” he growls.

“The night before she died! We just went to bed as normal. What do you want?”

“Are you certain?” Castiel asks, and he’s towering over him now.

“You’re insane.” Brown stares at him in disbelief, his shoulders sagging. “I loved Katrice. What are you trying to suggest?”

There’s a very long pause, during which Castiel’s glare starts to falter.

“Katrice, she’s…buried in Missoula?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Was she buried or cremated?”

“I don’t have to—”

Castiel pulls out his pistol, aiming it at Brown’s head. It’s not loaded, but Brown doesn’t need to know that. Brown puts his hands up immediately, still holding his gaze. “What was left of her, we cremated.”

 _Dammit_. “Did you keep any part of her?” he demands, dropping Brown’s cell phone into his pocket to free his other hand. “A lock of hair, maybe, or something else you took with you when you moved?”

“No.”

Castiel disengages the safety.

“No! I didn’t. She was torn to pieces!”

“Think!” Castiel says, voice full of menace. “Before she died, had she ever visited Bozeman before? Ever visited Riley’s zoo?”

“Why would either of us give that asshole money?” Brown asks, sucking in a breath. “I want to know why you’re asking, kid.”

Castiel gives up. Brown already thinks he’s crazy. “Your wife’s ghost is killing Riley’s animals, I want to know how. Part of her body is somewhere inside that zoo.”

“You think—” Brown’s eyes narrow, still disbelieving. “Listen, _Clarence_ , whatever you’re thinking, Katrice _lived_ for animals. She’d never hurt one, not on purpose, you understand?” He straightens up, facing down the gun in his face. “You need help, kid. Now why don’t you just put that gun down…”

Castiel sighs. It’s becoming obvious there is no help to be fond here. He’s screwed up this encounter to the point where it looks more like he’ll be lucky to simply get out without being arrested. That’s just what he needs. Dean will never let him live it down.

He lowers the gun, but his eyes are still fixed on Brown. Something is off here. “Why would Katrice choose to kill herself the way she did? It’s a gruesome way to go.”

“We spent our lives looking after those animals,” Brown says, eyes narrowed. “Suddenly they were being taken away—that just killed her. She wanted to die with them around her.”

“How would you know?” Castiel asks. He tilts his head. “Why would you be charged with abusing your animals if you were both so dedicated to their welfare? Why were your lions so hungry they’d bite the hand that feeds them?”

“What are you—”

“Answer the question.” The gun goes up again, and Brown visibly swallows. “What were you doing while your wife was locked in the lion’s den, Mr. Brown?” he demands. He takes a step forwards. “Were you holding the keys?”

Brown doesn’t answer him; his hand darts forwards, grabbing Castiel’s gun hand by the wrist and twisting it around until he’s able to snatch the weapon. Castiel reacts immediately, backing away. _This is a rare stroke of luck_ , he thinks, and now he’s staring down the barrel of his own unloaded gun.

“What are you doing here?” Brown demands.

Castiel holds up his hands. “I really did think your wife’s ghost was killing Riley’s animals,” he says, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting murder.” He decides to play along. Even if the gun were loaded, he knows that Brown can’t afford to shoot him any more than Castiel could; not in the middle of an apartment block. “Why would you kill your wife, Mr. Brown?”

“Twenty years,” Brown says. “Twenty years, I worked in that zoo. I cleaned all those enclosures; I must have seen more shit than a sewer diver. I fed those animals and took care of them. I put my _life_ into that place.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “Is that why you were shut down for inhumane conditions?”

“That would never have happened if she’d just pulled her weight,” Brown snapped. “She was neglecting the animals! The staff weren’t being properly supervised, the vet care wasn’t up to date, the enclosures weren’t being maintained…I can’t do everything myself. Don’t you get it? It was her fault we got shut down. She was lazy and she was selfish.”

Castiel looks at him, appalled. Every time he tries to kid himself that people are good, that people are somehow better than the things he hunts… “So you _killed_ her? Because she…” he trails off, shaking his head. “You sicken me.”

“You think you can just come in here and judge me?” Brown asks, pointing the gun closer to his face. Castiel doesn’t flinch. He knows when a person is experienced with firearms, and this man isn’t. “Who the hell are you? Talking about ghosts killing animals? What’s wrong with you?”

He does have a point, Castiel is prepared to admit.

He’s sick of this, though. It’s getting him nowhere, and he wants to go find Dean. There’s really only one way of clearing this up, and given the proverbial corner he’s backed himself into it’s going to come across as sloppy, but that hardly matters.

“You were right,” he says, slowly reaching into his inner pocket. Brown looks at his hand with suspicion. “I am FBI.” Just as slow, his hand emerges with the badge. “And I am here to investigate your wife’s death. And you, sir, are under arrest.”

A look of utmost panic crosses Brown’s face.

 _Click_.

Castiel uses Brown’s moment of bewilderment when the gun doesn’t fire to grab him by the front of his shirt, push him back and pull him forward once more, headbutting him.

* * *

 

“No,” Dean says, and Castiel hears a groan over the phone. “Oh, _come on_. That’s just...”

Castiel sighs, accelerating as the traffic light turns green. “I don’t know what their marriage was like. I only got his side of the story, but he did kill her. That much he told me himself.”

“People baffle me, man. I guess that explains why her spirit’s angry,” Dean says grimly. “If Kenneth put off feeding the lion’s and then locked her in with them…God, it must have been terrifying. No wonder she ain’t at rest.” There’s a pause, and Castiel imagines him shaking his head. “I guess we’ve still got no clue as to what her spirit’s connected to?”

“It’s not her body; she was cremated,” Castiel confirms. “After I knocked Kenneth out I searched the apartment in case he’d brought any of her belongings with him, but I found nothing. I guess he didn’t want reminders of her lying around, after what he did.”

“Where is he now?”

Castiel checks the rear view mirror. “I left him in the apartment, but I made an anonymous 911 call and told them where he was. I tipped them off about Katrice’s death, too; it’s in their hands now.”

“Think they’ll convict him?”

“He tried to kill a man he believed was a federal agent,” Castiel says slowly. “I think he doesn’t care anymore.”

They change the subject.

“Brock and I have been digging around,” Dean explains. “I gotta admit, I was hoping for more from you, but we did notice one thing; both of the attacks happened around the same time, just after midnight. I pulled up the report on Katrice’s death, and they estimated that was about the time she died.”

“Ghosts do love patterns.”

“That’s what I figured. So, there was no attack on the animals last night, but since all the enclosures have salt around them now, we can kind of understand why. I’m more curious about Tuesday. What the hell happened then? Why wait a day if you’re going to attack the wolves? Did she need a rest?”

“I doubt it.” There’s something nagging at the back of Castiel’s mind. “Riley was away from the zoo until after twelve. I can’t help thinking that’s important.”

“I thought so too, which would mean we’ve got some kind of haunted _zookeeper_ , which makes no sense at all. I asked him about Katrice Brown, the guy didn’t even know she was dead.”

“Do some research on her before she died,” he says, frowning slightly. “How well did she and Riley know each other?”

“The way I heard it, almost not at all. During the lobby he was mostly speaking to Kenneth, but I’ll see what he says. When are you going to get here?”

“Give me about half an hour,” Castiel says, checking his speed. “Anything else worth reporting?”

“That’s it from us, I’m afraid,” Dean replies. “I’ll see you soon.”

Castiel turns the facts over in his head, drumming one finger on the steering wheel thoughtfully. He’s not quite sure they’ve considered anything; this case is very simple, and whatever the answer is, it’s staring them all in the face.

Not for the first time, he finds his thoughts going back to more personal territory.

He hasn’t told anyone about what happened with Samandriel in all the years since it happened. Even while hunting with Meg, it had been a strict don’t-ask-don’t-tell regime, because maybe he was young but he’d already figured out that every hunter has a tragic past, and most of them are a lot worse than his. People hunt because they can’t find closure, it’s as simple as that. People hunt because knowing what’s out there and what it’s capable of, how can they do anything else?

Their conversation this morning is indicative of two things. One, he trusts Dean. God fucking damn it. He trusts Dean enough to open up to him, and maybe that’s a problem, but right now, it’s like stumbling upon Atlantis.

The second thing is more important, because Dean trusts him. Maybe not completely—pretty damn far from completely—but Dean trusts him enough to open up to him. There’s more to his story than he’s said, true, but for a man afraid to open up to anyone, this is enough. When Dean wants to tell him more, he will, and Castiel will be ready to listen when he does. The two of them have a lot in common, right down to the names of their brothers.

He checks the time, surprised to see that it’s not even midday. There should be enough time to reach the zoo before lunch. He drives the Impala just a little bit faster.

* * *

 

Now it’s the middle of the day, Riley’s zoo is more alive; it’s like a different place. It’s still closed to visitors, but the thick rings of white rock salt—he shudders to think how much Riley must have spent on it to get enough for all the enclosures—are the only things that suggest there is anything out of the ordinary. He pauses once to peer through one of the glass walls, trying to catch sight of whatever is inside. According to the plaque, it’s red pandas, but wherever they are, it’s out of sight. He feels a twinge of disappointment and keeps walking.

Dean must see him coming when he approaches the admin building, because it opens before he arrives. “Hey,” he says, grinning. “You don’t look like the pizza man.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes as he passes him. Riley looks up from in front of the information desk, and Castiel nods to him in greeting.

“We actually did order pizza,” Dean explains, closing the door behind him. “Saves us the trouble of going out to buy lunch. I look the liberty of ordering for you.”

“Thanks; I’m starving.” Castiel watches as Dean goes back to the table at the centre of the room. It wasn’t there last night; he must have moved it from somewhere else. Either way, his laptop is on it. “Any progress?”

It’s Riley who answers. “Mrs. Brown died over two weeks ago and the last time she was in Bozeman, according to Dean, was months before that. Even then, she never came to visit my zoo. We’ve been trying to find the missing piece of the puzzle. Well, Dean has; I’ve been monitoring and reviewing the security footage, mostly.”

“Isn’t there zoo maintenance work that needs to be done?” Castiel asks, going over to Dean’s makeshift workstation but looking in Riley’s direction.

“I’ve had my staff doing it. Dean isn’t letting me leave the house until this is—”

He breaks off, staring at something past Castiel’s shoulder.

It takes Castiel all of one second to register, but by the time he makes to turn around, he’s already being hurled bodily across the suddenly frigid room. He doesn’t feel a shove against his back, but he doesn’t need to. He already knows what’s happened when he slams into the glass wall of the gift shop, feeling it crack under his weight. He sucks in a gasp, winded, and staggers backwards, already feeling blood trickle from what can only be a broken nose.

“ _Cas_.”

He’s dizzy and lightheaded and the lights are flickering, but he recognises Dean’s voice, enough to recognise the warning behind it in time to stumble sideways as the ghost of Katrice Brown hurls herself directly towards where he had been standing, shattering the wall in seconds and spraying glass in all directions. Somewhere in his peripheral vision, he sees Riley run around to the other side of the information desk.

There’s a noisy bang then that Castiel recognises as the rock salt gun he left with Dean when he dropped him off, but he knows it’s too late; Katrice has already disappeared. Then Dean is by his side, grabbing him by the shoulder and helping him stand. “Cas, are you okay?”

Castiel looks at him incredulously, unsure whether to grace that with an answer. “Yes,” is all he says in the end, his voice gravelly. “Where’s Riley?”

His vision swims into focus, and Riley is straightening up from behind the desk. “Where the hell did she go?”

“Not far enough.” Castiel wipes his face with the back of his hand, pausing to note the blood. So much for Katrice only attacking animals. “We need to get more salt,” he mutters. “Make a circle around the house—”

“There already is one,” Riley says. “I checked it myself ten minutes ago.”

“Well, obviously—” And then Castiel is being hurled again, landing on his back and skidding several metres over the broken glass covering the gift shop floor. Pain is shooting from every inch of exposed skin, and the hair on the back of his head is wet with blood, but he’s not unconscious yet.

“—She got in,” he groans.

The blurry image of Dean somewhere between him and the doorway holds up the shotgun, turning around on the spot, and Castiel is forced to take a moment to appreciate the sight of Dean with a firearm. “Come and get it, bitch!” he yells. “What’s the matter, are you scared?”

“Dean.” Castiel forces himself to sit upright, cringing as he’s overtaken by another bout of dizziness. He can hear shuffling, and he hopes to God that Riley has the sense to duck again.

“I’m fine, get down.”

“You’re—”

Dean spins around to face him, firing another salt round directly above Castiel just as he feels himself start to lift from the ground for a third time. Instinctively, he throws an arm up to cover his eyes.

“Did you get her?”

“She vanished before I could shoot,” Dean growls, and Castiel hauls himself onto unsteady feet as Dean comes over, shotgun in hand, to help him. “I don’t think she likes you.”

 “I don’t think it’s me.”

“What?”

Katrice materialises behind Dean before Castiel has a chance to explain, and a surge of panic rises in his chest before she pushes past him, hurling him sideways and going for Castiel again. Dean is already raising the shotgun again by the time he steadies himself.

Castiel stops him. “Wait!”

“What the hell—”

Castiel’s hand dips into his pocket, and a moment later, he’s hurling a small object towards Katrice with an overarm throw.

She disappears a second before it hits her, and it passes through where she was standing, hitting the opposing wall.

They stand in silence for several seconds.

“The fuck was that, man?”

Castiel wipes blood from his face again as he looks up at Riley, who is staring at them both from behind the counter with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. Words fail him. Without offering an explanation, he marches across the room, loading a clip into his pistol as he does so. Both Riley and Dean watch in silence as he bends to pick up Kenneth Brown’s cell phone and carries it outside. He drops it on the ground and shoots it at point blank range.

“I went to see her husband,” he says simply, striding back into the admin building. “I think she noticed.”

Dean stares at him with a mixture of disbelief and concern. “Are you okay, Cas?”

It’s as though remembering the dizziness makes it catch up with him. He slumps against the wall, touching his nose tentatively and then wishing he hadn’t. His eyes fall on Dean. “You _can_ use a gun.” It’s something between an accusation and praise.

“Huh?” Dean looks down at the shotgun as though he’d forgotten he was still holding it. “Yeah, I guess I can.”

“I need to…see somebody about my nose.”

“I’ll set it for you,” Dean says.

“Will you?” Castiel asks vaguely.

Dean raises his eyebrows incredulously. Ten minutes later, their pizza arrives.

* * *

 

“So what I want to know is, if it’s her husband that she’s angry at, why’s she taking it out on animals?” Riley asks. They’re sitting around the table with a stack of pizza boxes, and this feels like the most bizarre slumber party of Castiel’s life.

“She’s not thinking clearly,” Castiel says, mumbling around his current slice of pizza. It’s difficult to enjoy while holding an ice pack to his face, and his appetite is decidedly absent, but Dean, apparently, has failed to notice, because he’s already finished most of his own pizza singlehandedly. Riley, though, is also somewhat off-put. Nothing subdues a man like having their gift shop destroyed in a fight with an angry ghost. “It’s pretty obvious she doesn’t want to hurt any humans except for her husband—or somebody who associated with him—but given the way she died, I think her spirit’s frightened of the animals. The predators in particular. It’s a fight or flight response.”

“If it’s Kenneth she’s pissed at, we can theoretically put her to rest by, well, letting her at him,” Dean points out. “He dies, her spirit finds closure.” He sighs, picking up the last slice of pizza from his box. “Not really an option though. The guy’s a grade-A douchebag but it’s not our job to pass judgement on him.”

Riley puts down the pizza slice he’s been trying to eat for the last twenty minutes. “The salt rings are in tact. I don’t know how she got in here.”

“It’s you,” Castiel says simply, letting the ice pack drop from his face. “I don’t know how, but…somehow, it’s you she’s connected to. It’s the only way to explain all the facts.”

“I never met her before in my life. Not in person,” Riley mutters, looking down at the cut on his palm that’s been bleeding ever since the glass shattered. It’s not deep, but he’s had his thumb on it for the better part of half an hour, and the blood is still yet to stop.

Castiel cocks his head, frowning. “When was your last clotting factor transfusion?”

Riley looks up. “What?”

“You told me you had haemophilia,” he explains, still staring at his thumb. “You get clotting factor concentrates for it, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“And those are from blood donors?”

Dean’s mouth freezes around his pizza, looking at Riley’s hand in wonder before he slowly sets down the food. Riley looks his way, uncomfortable. “Yeah, they’re made from donations. I only had my last one…” His eyes widen as realisation dawns on him. “I had it on Monday. You don’t think…”

Castiel turns to Dean. “Can you find out Katrice’s donor status?”

Dean is already getting to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

“Clotting factors don’t have DNA,” Riley says, turning to Castiel once Dean is gone, fetching his computer. “They’re just proteins. How would that be possible?”

The pain building behind Castiel’s nose is becoming more intense. He lifts the ice pack back to his face.  “It’s not always DNA. Sometimes it’s just an object that was close to them…I _suppose_ it’s conceivable. If her spirit was angry enough, maybe…” Is it? He can’t exactly look up similar events. It’s unlikely they’ve done studies on the specifications a ghost needs to be attached to something.

The idea is almost laughable, and despite himself, he finds himself shaking his head in wry amusement. “Just when you think you’ve seen it all.”

“You know, man, if you’re right it means she’s gonna go away on her own,” Riley says, frowning slightly. “I mean, blood components get used up and replaced all the time. My next treatment’s due tomorrow.”

“I wonder if she knows that.” Castiel finds himself glancing around the room, a deep-set frown upon his face. Dean is behind the information desk where his laptop is plugged in to charge, staring intently at the screen. There’s no sign of Katrice anymore; she vanished after her husband’s phone was destroyed, but if they’re right, her spirit can’t have gone far. Perhaps she’s listening now.

“This is good,” Riley says. “Man, if that’s what the problem was the whole time then we’ve just got to wait it out until there’s nothing left for her to hold onto. The animals stop dying—I can be open for business as soon as I can fix that,” he says, looking sadly over at the mess of glass that was once his gift shop.

“Got it.” They both look up at Dean when he speaks. “Katrice Brown made a plasma donation the day before she died.” He raises his head to shoot them both a grin. “Guys, I think we’ve found our source.”

Castiel heaves a sigh of relief, and across from him, Riley’s head falls into his hands, but not fast enough to conceal his smile.

“I’d stay away from the animals for a while,” Dean says, coming back around the desk to join them. “Just let your employees take care of them and spend a week or two out of town for personal reasons. Maybe carry around something iron, just in case.”

Riley laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. God, I can’t thank you guys enough.”

“Don’t…don’t mention it,” Castiel says. They’ve barely done anything here. By the looks of things, the ghost would have gone away on her own even if they never came. But they did manage to uncover a murderer. It’s not a complete waste of time.

“This could make one hell of a story,” Dean goes on, grinning as he picks up his pizza slice again and takes a large bite. He covers his mouth as he continues. “You cool with that? If we change the names?”

Riley looks at him in bewilderment. “Sure, if you want…” He looks at Dean seriously. “I mean it, though, man. If there’s anything I can do to help you guys out…”

“The orang-utan would be nice,” Dean says, nodding in the direction of the gift shop and the life-sized stuffed primate that was until recently on display in the store window. It’s one of the ones with Velcro on its hands so it can wrap its arms around somebody’s shoulders. “I reckon it’d go great with Cas’s scowl.”

Castiel scowls. Dean grins.

They don’t buy the orang-utan.

* * *

 

The case may be, apparently, solved, but Castiel isn’t stupid enough to just drive off and leave Riley unattended right away. It’s made easier when Riley offers to put them up for the night. Castiel suspects he does it because he feels guilty about breaking his nose, but it works out fine; if they stay in the zoo, they’ll be where the action is taking place. Katrice may be most active at the time of her death, but she’s already proven she’s capable of appearing whenever she wishes.

It’s only early afternoon, though, and they still have the rest of the day ahead of them. Dean stays with Riley at the zoo to play babysitter while the man goes about his daily jobs, and Castiel goes back to the motel to collect their belongings.

Once in Bozeman, however, he makes a detour, stopping by Kenneth Brown’s house. It had been a foolish idea to leave him there unconscious, but he couldn’t afford to take him with him. If he brought Kenneth to Riley, Katrice would have been a lot more violent than she was with Castiel.

His concern is unwarranted, however; when he arrives, he finds a police car parked at the base of the building. He doesn’t bother trying to pass himself off as a Fed to garner more information; nobody will take him seriously with tissue paper in his nose.

He touches his nose absentmindedly, frowning. Since Dean set it back into place—with a skill level that only comes from experience—the swelling has been brought under control. It’s not Castiel’s first broken nose; he’s had enough to know that he’s lucky this one is healing as quickly as it is.

He drives away from the apartment block, making a call to Dean and asking him to hack into the police servers when he can, to find out what he can about Kenneth Brown.

“I guess the cops’ll take him into custody,” Dean says, frowning. “Once they’re sure his wounds aren’t serious. I’ll find out their verdict as soon as we’re back inside. Hey, you ever seen a red panda?”

“No, why?”

“I’m patting one.” And Castiel can just _hear_ the wonder in Dean’s voice. “It’s…man, you should be here. Miracle of life, Cas.”

“I’ve heard they’re cute.”

“Like little rays of sunshine,” Dean confirms. “I’m—hey, wait!—It ran off. Brock’s feeding them now.”

“Maybe you’re in the wrong line of work,” Castiel says, deadpan.

“Nah, their crap smells really bad.” Theirs a pause, during which Castiel assumes Dean is getting to his feet. “No sign of Katrice anywhere in the zoo, though, but I think some of the other keepers are getting nervous seeing a guy walk around with a shotgun.” 

“So long as they’re not dead,” Castiel says. “Call me if anything else comes up. You need me to buy anything while I’m here?”

“I don’t know, man. Dinner? Order some takeaway or something.”

“Sure. I’ve got a few things to do around town before I head back, so I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

“Awesome.” _Click._

Castiel stuffs his phone into his pocket again.

He just has a few routine jobs to do, but they should take up the rest of the afternoon, in between visiting a Laundromat and the supermarket and a gun shop to buy more ammo. The laundromat is his first port of call; he carries his washing bag in on its own.

Dean never seems to have laundry. In fact, he barely seems to own any clothes at all; he has perhaps three outfits that he cycles as well as the suit he wears for cases. The clothes themselves last him forever, too; it’s not uncommon for Dean to wear the same thing for days in a row. He’s worse than Castiel.

It only takes him a few minutes to be in and out of the building, making a note of the address before heading back to the Impala. He opens the trunk, shoving his empty washing bag inside.

Something catches his eye, and he frowns, looking up and down the street before picking up the old spellbook poking out from Dean’s duffle bag.

There’s an unspoken rule between them that Dean is the one who holds on to it, although the official agreement is that they’re both allowed to read it when they want. It is what began their partnership in the first place, after all. To be honest, though, there are times when Castiel forgets its existence entirely. Sometimes he sees Dean reading it, late at night when he’s hunched over his computer with a can of beer at his side. In spite of what he’d first insisted upon, he hasn’t read much of it himself, but he carries it back to the driver’s seat, propping it against the steering wheel and sitting back.

From what he’s seen, the book is a how-to manual on demons. How to communicate, trap, summon, and a collection of the blackest magic Castiel has ever had the misfortune of reading. There’s a chapter about Crossroad’s demons. He’s never seen one—no hunter has—but according to this, they trade in human souls.

A lot of the book’s content is about human souls; it seems to be a recurring theme. It all comes down to souls, the ultimate natural resource.

Unfortunately, a lot of the content is in Enochian, and the process of reading it is arduous and difficult. The one time he asked Dean to translate for him, it had been brushed off with a distracted mumble, and Castiel has not asked him since.

Honestly, he doesn’t know what to believe. They found this book in the home of a witch. She had been attempting to summon a demon. There’s nothing to indicate why, but what he does know is that she failed, time and time again. What possible reason would he have for believing in demons?

There’s Dean’s research, of course; Schulz is one of a lot of witches who suddenly flocked into Lawrence in ’83 as though they were on a pilgrimage. He doesn’t know that for sure either; Dean has never told him how he knows, not really. He’s never asked to track another one of the witches down, not since that first time in Minnesota.

Perhaps now is the time to bring it up, though. Castiel is keen to get onto this case; the big case, the one with the big mystery, and Dean is too. All they need is direction, and he’s starting to think that Dean has that and is just unwilling to ask.

Checking the time, Castiel closes the book and puts it aside on the passenger seat. It’s two o’clock; if he wants to get back to the zoo before dark, he still has work to do before he can afford to read.

* * *

 

He finds a Thai restaurant after picking up the laundry; he settles on that. It’ll be cold by the time he gets to the zoo but Riley will have a microwave.

At five o’clock, he texts Dean to come and help him carry everything from the car to the admin building just as he pulls into the zoo. Dean must have been waiting, because he and Riley are there in a matter of minutes. Castiel shoves two plastic bags of takeaway containers into his hands before going to the trunk to pick up their duffle bags. The spellbook is safely tucked away inside Dean’s again.

“It’s been quiet?” he asks as they start down the path from the car park, arms laden with bags.

“Like the proverbial mouse,” Dean confirms. “Except for the animal noises and the zookeepers and the vet, but yeah, nothing out of the ordinary. I did do an EMF scan on Riley, though; the readings went crazy. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was a ghost.” He grins.

Castiel chuckles. “I had an exciting afternoon of laundry and shopping.”

“Don’t worry, I took pictures,” Dean assures him, smirking. “Never been to a zoo before, let alone a private tour.”

Somehow, this isn’t surprising in the least. Castiel is starting to wonder if Dean just sprang into existence a week before they met. “What did you think?”

Dean contemplates this for a moment, staring at the back of Riley’s head. The man is ahead of them, almost at the admin building. “It was interesting. The animals don’t seem unhappy,” he says at last, dropping his voice slightly. “They liked their keepers a lot. But, you know, this is the only life they’ve known, and they’re spending it locked up. No matter how nice it is or how happy they are, it’s still captivity.”

Castiel nods slowly. “They’re safe and cared for, but it is very…unnatural.”

“Humans have weird ideas about entertainment, that’s all I’m saying.” Dean shrugs, heaving a breath. “I didn’t come here to judge. I came here to kick ass and kill a dead person.”

Dinner passes uneventfully. Riley has a lot of questions about what they do; he asks under the guise of directing them at both of them, but it’s very clear that he only has ears for Dean. Eventually, the two of them fall into conversation while Castiel eats his curry from the sidelines, eyeing Dean disapprovingly. Dean pays him no notice, or maybe he just doesn’t care.

Again, the rest of the evening goes off without a hitch; Castiel offers to wash the dishes, and it keeps him busy. Even so, he wishes the evening would go faster; it’s taken him long enough to get used to Dean’s company, and regardless of how he feels about Riley, he’s very poor when it comes to spending prolonged periods with other people. It tires him out, and he needs to be alert tonight.

When he finishes the dishes, he goes upstairs, taking their duffle bags with him, and he doesn’t bid farewell.

The room Riley has leant them only has a double bed, but it doesn’t need to be said that tonight isn’t for sleeping; they’re on watch duty, it’s as simple as that. Still, he lies down on it anyway, back against the headboard with the spellbook in his hands and his laptop at his side. He’s been attempting to practice, but his Enochian is still painfully limited, and the only online resources he’s able to find aren’t much better. Whatever John Dee had talked about with his supposed angels, it clearly hadn’t been all-encompassing.

Why would a spellbook on demons be written in Enochian anyway? Castiel has never encountered it in all his years of hunting. No spells, no witchcraft, nothing of the sort. He’s always assumed it was just a language made up by a couple of superstitious old men, and the fact that some of the book is written in it doesn’t prove a thing.

He tries to find some evidence of an author, flipping to the front of the book and then to the back. Nothing. Of course. Perhaps Dean will have an idea.

He goes back to the first page and gets started.

Something about corruption and taint and death but it takes Castiel longer than it should to get through a single paragraph, and by the time he has, the disjointed collection of words he’s typed into a word document tell him nothing he didn’t already know. It’s frustrating, and it makes him irritable. He goes back to the Latin parts, for now, finding the demon-tracking spell.

He’s read this passage more times than he can count. Originally, he had thought that the spell was just a kind of…demonic GPS; do it, and get the location of the nearest demon. Now, though, as he reads the book in more detail, it’s far less simple. There are much simpler spells that enable contacting demons, even summoning them against their will, but they only work on lower-order beings. This one works on the big fish; Schulz was looking for a specific—and incredibly powerful—demon.

And she was failing. Not because her spell was failing, but because her target was hidden too well, even beyond the power a human sacrifice is able to create. _Nobody can find a demon that doesn’t want to be found_.

Why keep trying? What was so important about whatever she was looking for?

One thing he does know is that Schulz was never the orchestrator of this scheme. None of the witches who went to Lawrence are. If Dean is right about them, and Castiel suspects that he is, there’s no reason to think that a bunch of schoolteachers and secretaries are planning Armageddon behind the rest of humanity’s backs. No, they’re the pawns in someone else’s bigger game. Somebody who wants to find whichever demon Schulz was looking for very badly.

“Dude, you disappeared.”

Castiel starts.

Dean is standing in the doorway, peering through at him with a slight frown. His eyes have fallen on the book beside Castiel, but he says nothing.

“You seemed engrossed in your conversation,” Castiel says at last. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Brock was determined to stay up and wait out the evening with us but I told him no,” Dean continues. “There ain’t a lot he can do. Hell, there ain’t a lot we can do, but I didn’t tell him that.”

Castiel is forced to see Dean’s point; they’re watching for Katrice, but she could appear anywhere at any time. Theoretically, she can be anywhere in the zoo. There’s no way that Dean and Castiel can be everywhere at once. All they can do is sit tight with guns and iron and wait.

“I imagine he’ll have trouble sleeping,” Castiel says.

“Won’t we all.” There’s a chair against the far wall, and Dean slumps into it, stopping to run a hand over his face. “Find anything new?” he asks, nodding towards the spellbook.

“Nothing you haven’t seen.” Castiel gingerly closes the book. “Actually, I was hoping you’d help translate the Enochian parts,” he says, looking at Dean. “I’m not making headway on my own, and you’re fluent.”

“I am.” Frowning, Dean comes over, picking up the book and sitting down on the edge of the bed. “What did you want me to read?”

Castiel swings his legs over the side of the mattress and moves to sit next to Dean, flipping tentatively through the pages to where he’d been before. “This is the spell that Schulz was using,” he begins.

“Yeah, I’ve read it.”

“It’s an extremely powerful spell, Dean; that’s why it needed a human heart as a sacrifice. According to the Latin part, at least, it’s only used on the most powerful demons, and even then it only works if the demon isn’t taking preventative measures.”

“Not the most powerful,” Dean says.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not just used for tracking the most powerful demons,” Dean explains, raising his eyes to fix Castiel with a stare. “It relates to a specific type. The spell is only used on one type of demon—which is generally incredibly powerful, but not necessarily.”

“How to you know?”

“It says so here.” Dean runs a hand over the Enochian passage above the spell. “This book, it’s…laid out a certain way; the spells themselves are in Latin, but all the informative passages…they’re in Enochian. It’s like theory and practice are divided so it’s harder for an individual to read both. I doubt Leonie Schulz was able to read Enochian properly; the journals of Dee and Kelley are patchy and flawed, but they’re where most humans get their knowledge from.”

Castiel listens attentively, his expression pensive. “If it was around before Dee and Kelley where did you learn it, then?”

“It’s…” Dean pauses, staring ahead. “Been in my family for a long time. My Dad taught it to me. He taught it to all his kids. I don’t even know where it came from, you know, just that I had to learn it. It was good, in a way; all my relatives, we’d have a way of talking to each other that nobody else could understand.”

“It’s to do with angels.” Castiel watches him, squinting slightly. “Your family, they were…interested in the subject?”

Dean looks uncomfortable. “Yeah, I guess. We weren’t hunters, but we learned about this stuff. About demons, and stuff most humans never even knew existed. Angels…well, it’s not like we go to parties with them but Enochian, and Enochian magic? That’s definitely a thing, even though most hunters don’t even know about it. It’s a really heavily guarded secret.”

It takes a long time for either of them to look away.

“This book,” Castiel continues. “It was written by somebody with an intricate understanding of the language. Is it possible it was written by one of your ancestors?”

Dean chuckles. “I sincerely doubt it, but you know, I’ve been wrong before.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“No, it’s true. I screw up all the time. Some times more than others.” Dean sighs.

After a moment, Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder. It was intended to be a single pat, but he leaves it there well past its due time.

They sit in silence.

“Anyway.” Dean clears his throat, drawing attention back to the book in his lap. “Whoever gave this to Leonie Schulz—because she couldn’t have found it on her own so someone has to have given it to her— _can_ read Enochian, and they’re the one we need to worry about. They’re the one who’s looking for the demon.” He pauses, face set in stone. “I don’t know what it’s for, but it ain’t good.”

“It’s never good,” Castiel agrees. When is anything ever good? “We should track down one of the witches,” he says. “After this case, once we’re sure Katrice has moved on, we’ll find one of the witches and see if we can get them to talk. Do you have any addresses?”

Dean looks at him, expressionless. “Yeah,” he says, and after a short hesitation, “You’d do that?”

Castiel frowns. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Just…” Dean smiles to himself. “Still having a hard time seeing this as your kind of deal. What happened to not believing in demons?”

“You happened.”

Dean looks at him.

Castiel takes his hand off Dean’s shoulder, only now remembering that it’s still there. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”

“I’ll translate this,” Dean says, looking over the Enochian passage once more.

Castiel was about to go to make coffee, but he stops. “When you say ‘types’ of demons—what do you mean? Are they different?”

“Demons come in different types,” Dean murmurs. “It depends on how they were created, how old they are, what they were…before.”

“Before being demons?” Castiel frowns. “Do they start out being something different?”

Dean is still staring at the book before him, but he clearly isn’t seeing it. “A demon is just a soul, Cas. Usually a human one. They get sent to Hell, for some reason or another; maybe they sold their soul at a crossroad, or dabbled in black magic or were just plain evil. When you’re in hell, it’s like...I don’t know, fire and brimstone and whatever, after a while it just…burns away their purity, burns away everything that makes them who they are. What you’re left with is this _thing_ , full of hate and anger and a wish for anarchy.” He clenches his fist.

Dean has lost someone in this way. It’s written all over his face, transparent as glass, and Castiel’s heart clenches. He doesn’t know Dean’s background, but he knows pain.

“Anyway.” Dean coughs. “The oldest demons are the most powerful, and they all have different roles to play. Most of ‘em are just servants to the stronger ones. Acheri demons are the weakest, but they’re the only ones that don’t need host bodies to do damage. After them, there’s a hierarchy; black-eyed demons are the grunts, the foot-soldiers, crossroads demons make deals in order to get more souls for hell. After that, it gets a little less cut and dry; yellow-eyed demons are like generals. The oldest demons have white-eyes and they’re the most powerful. Far as I can tell, they don’t answer to anyone, but the inner-workings of hell aren’t really taught in school.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Castiel asks, tilting his head.

“’Cause I—” Dean cuts himself off, watching Castiel like he doesn’t even know. “You know, I get the impression it’s gonna be relevant really damn soon.” Suddenly, he’s smirking. “I can’t be there to save your ass all hours of the day. You gotta know this stuff.”

Castiel snorts. “Alright, how do you kill them?”

“You can’t—not easily, at least. They’re vulnerable to a few things like salt and holy water, but actually killing them is a bitch. The best you can do is send them back to hell with an exorcism.”

Castiel is already familiar with the exorcism; it’s written in the book. There was also a symbol next to it; a Devil’s trap. He has a feeling they’ll come in handy soon.

He stands up. “This is going to be a long night,” he declares. “Want me to make coffee?” A long night, but they can use it to get a lot of work done. One of them will have to keep an eye on the rest of the zoo from the security cameras—he already knows that this particular job is going to him—but Dean can work on the book, maybe do a written translation of the relevant Enochian parts. He can even do that from the monitor room, where Castiel will help in whatever ways he can, limited though they may be.

Dean reaches up, grabbing the sleeve of his trench coat, and for a second Castiel can see a boy in his features. Then the moment is over. “I don’t need coffee,” he says, lowering his voice. “You should get set up in the monitor room; I’ll make coffee if you need it.”

“You can’t make coffee, Dean.”

“You don’t put anything in your coffee. It’s literally just beans and water. I don’t see how I can screw that up.”

Castiel snorts. The first time Dean had tried to make coffee for himself, it had been, in simple terms, a disaster. By a twist of fate, that time was also his last. “I had some earlier; I’ll be good for another hour or two.” He reaches for his phone, taking it off its charger to go downstairs. Dean watches him, tense.

“Let me ask you something, Dean.” Castiel pockets his phone and folds his arms, assessing Dean with a frown. “If demons are everywhere and they’re so powerful, why has no hunter ever met one? I mean, sure, they keep a low profile, but if there’s a whole community of witches that knows how to summon and interact with them, surely somebody some time must have met one.”

Dean is still unbelievably tense. “That’s what I’m worried about, Cas.” He drums his foot against the floorboards once. “This whole thing, whatever it is, started thirty years ago; it’s been quiet enough to not attract attention between now and then, but before that…man, demons didn’t leave hell for anything, and I mean _anything_. Hell is the lion’s den; people go in but they never come out, and those that do get taken care of by people like me.”

“Something happened in Lawrence,” Castiel observes. “In 1983.”

“ _Something_. Now, there are demons running around on Earth that nobody even knows about, and they’re getting better at hiding.”

Castiel mulls over what they know. Somebody is looking for a demon, and that somebody is enlisting witches to do it. And the demon is powerful—perhaps that’s why whoever it is wants to find it.

“I should call Bobby,” he says suddenly, and Dean looks up sharply. “He’s in contact with most of the hunters in America, at least a little bit. If we can get the word out in the hunter community—”

“No.” Dean looks visibly shocked by the suggestion. “Are you crazy? You can’t tell hunters about this.”

“What are they going to do, inform the public? I thought that was your job.”

“Demons aren’t like other monsters, Cas,” Dean says seriously. “You let hunters go after them all they’re going to do is make them angrier and get themselves killed.”

“I’m a hunter. Why is it okay to tell me?”

“You’re different.”

They stare at each other, neither willing to be the first to break.

Dean suddenly grins. “You got me around, and there’s no way any demon’s gonna get past me. I’m a tough son of a bitch.”

Castiel knows it’s true. Regardless of how well he copes with hunting, Dean knows his stuff. Demons are definitely his forte.

Castiel doesn’t say that, though. What he says instead is, “You cried during the end of _Lord of the Rings_.”

Dean looks affronted. “No, I didn’t.”

You’re a liar. “You refused to talk to me for two hours.”

“Frodo,” Dean says, shaking his head. “He’d finally finished his quest, saved his home, all his friends were together, and he still had to leave, because it…he didn’t belong in his home anymore. That’s…man, that’s some sad crap right there. Don’t you dare tell me that ain’t sad.”

Hints of a smile work their way into Castiel’s features, which only seems to make Dean angrier. “I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head with a smile. “You’re right, it was sad.” He looks at Dean seriously, their words before the tangent not forgotten. “I’m going to set up downstairs,” he tells him, and Dean nods after a moment’s pause, standing and collecting the spellbook. His expression is tense, jaw set firmly as though he wants to say more but isn’t sure how to approach it.

“I’m going to record today’s episode” is all he says in the end, going over to where Castiel has left his duffel bag and fishing his laptop out of it. “Afterwards I’ll come and meet you in the monitor room and I’ll start translating. Sound good?”

“Sounds fine.”

* * *

 

When possible, Castiel tries to avoid watching the time; he finds it’s easier that way. Even so, staring boredly at the computer screen as it flicks between enclosures is a difficult pastime to engage in without constantly returning one’s gaze to the digital clock in the corner of the screen. That’s how he knows, when Dean finally knocks on the door and wordlessly sits on the floor, plugging in his laptop and setting down the aged spellbook at his side, that more than an hour has passed.

“How’s your nose?” Dean’s voice is hushed.

“Alright.” It still hurts, but the swelling is down, and at least he can breathe now. The odds are against the leaving of any permanent signs. Dean knows his stuff.

“Any sign of Katrice?”

“No.”

Silence ensues.

“The demon that they’re looking for,” Castiel asks. “What kind is it?”

Dean lifts his head. “What?”

“Earlier,” Castiel clarifies. “You said this spell only targets one type of demon. What type is it?”

“Now that, I don’t know.”

“It’s not written?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Castiel takes his eyes away from the monitor to look at Dean.

“It’s not a word I know.” Dean flips to the page in question, eyes panning down the Enochian passage. “It says it right here,” he explains, pointing. “But I don’t recognise it.”

“I thought you were fluent in Enochian.”

“Define mytacism.”

“Excuse me?”

“I thought you were fluent in English.”

Castiel puts up his hands.

“Anyway, I’ve read this whole thing from start to finish, but there are still bits I’m figuring out.” Dean doesn’t meet Cas’s eyes; he’s only looking down at the book questioningly. Castiel frowns. “I can’t tell you what’s so special about this demon we’re hunting, only that it’s powerful and you don’t get a lot of them.”

Castiel sighs impatiently. “I suppose we’ll find out in due time.”

“Yeah, we will.”

They’re plunged into silence again. Castiel turns his attention back to the monitor, chin falling into his hand as he watches for movement.

“Who’s Meg, Cas?”

“What?” Castiel turns around again, irritable.

“This morning.” Dean cocks his head. “You said you went hunting with a woman named Meg. Who was she?”

“Meg was…” Castiel pauses, considering his response. He hasn’t seen Meg in years. Doesn’t even know if she’s still alive, although she’s a little too resilient to be dead. “She was a hunter,” he explains. “We met in New York when we found the same case and ran into each other.” He chuckles lightly at the memory. “I was nineteen at the time—it was my first real case. Needless to say, I was…inept. I didn’t know the first thing about wraiths; she saved my life. Of course, she told me to go home before I got myself killed, but I didn’t listen. After that we had a…well, a close encounter that ended with a dead wraith, and she decided I wasn’t so helpless after all—although she never failed to stop reminding me that I was.”

Dean gives an amused huff. “What happened?”

Castiel is still smiling at the memory. “I asked her to show me the ropes, and she did. I still don’t know why—God knows she didn’t need me. I sometimes think she just…wanted the company. Wanted to have someone around to make life more interesting and appreciate her brazenness. Whatever the reason, I became a better hunter.”

“Where is she now?”

“Still hunting, I suppose.” Castiel sighs. “We were together for almost two years, but after a while…well, she decided to call it quits with me. I was a better hunter by then; we didn’t need each other and we both knew it.”

“That sucks.”

“It’s okay.” Castiel glances at the monitor absentmindedly. “Meg was…a free spirit. She needed to be by herself. It was in her nature—mine too, you know. We both functioned better as a solo act. I’ve run into her a few times since then, though,” he adds. “It’s a big country, but you’d be surprised how small it really is. Last time was four years ago; we ended up working a case together.”

It had been a wild case followed by an equally wild night. Like old times, she had said. He can’t deny that he had enjoyed working with Meg. They’d both been too young back then to pass as cops; their disguises usually opted more towards rebellious youths, and by god, nobody could embrace such a role quite like Meg did. Who needs a badge when they can get answers out of witnesses on snark alone?

He doubts that system would work for them now; he’s almost thirty, after all, and he looks a lot older in a suit and tie.

From his vantage point on the floor, Dean looks thoughtful, and his eyes flit between Castiel and the book in his lap with a frown. “I don’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s…” Somehow, Castiel feels as though Dean has opened up more to him in the last day than Castiel has. Part of him knows that’s wrong; as of now, most of his life story is laid bare. With Dean, he still knows almost nothing, at least, nothing next to what he’s certain there is to know. But with Dean, it’s worth more. Dean doesn’t share his life; he’s not the kind of man. “It’s alright,” he finishes. “It’s not a secret.”

Castiel sees the edges of a smile creep onto Dean’s face. “Were you and her ever…intimate?”

Castiel turns to look at him sharply, and Dean’s expression changes. “Uh, if that’s—”

“It’s…” It’s as if the room undergoes a sudden shift, because it’s painfully obvious from both their expressions that they’re thinking of the previous night, sprawled together on the mattress for no rhyme or reason but neither willing to move. Intimate? “Yes, we were.”

“Oh, right.”

“Yes.”

The monitor is currently showing the wolf enclosure; undisturbed, except perhaps the remaining wolves huddle closer than they had before. It’s the most fascinating thing that Castiel has ever seen.

To hell with it. “Do you want to talk about last night?”

“Not really.”

“We won’t, then.”

“We should.”

Castiel looks at him sourly, but his expression is sincere. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Dean. You thought you were close to finding your brother and you didn’t; I don’t blame you for…being upset.”

“I wasn’t just upset, Cas,” Dean mutters, irritant. “I was…confused.”

“By what?”

“By—by everything, man. I’m always confused. I don’t know how you keep failing to notice that.” Dean scowls. “But I mean—I don’t usually kiss people when I get confused, so there’s that.”

“Dean.” Castiel folds his arms, leaning forward in the chair. “It’s okay, really.”

“Nah, it really isn’t.”

Dean wants to talk about this but he doesn’t know how. Castiel wonders briefly how many people Dean has actually kissed. In between his oppressive family and the way he had kissed last night—like a virgin—his best estimate is next to nothing. It’s no wonder Dean is struggling.

He gets up, offering Dean a hand to help him do the same. His first instinct is to offer him coffee. His first instinct is always to offer somebody coffee, and it’s an instinct that has never let him down. They’ve been in here working for a while. Maybe Dean can take over monitor duty until he gets back. “It doesn’t matter.” He looks down at Dean seriously as the man assesses him through narrowed eyes before accepting the offered hand, hauling himself to his feet. “We’re partners, you and I. Whatever it is we need to work out, we will.”

“If I wanted to kiss you again,” Dean says cautiously, “what would you do?”

Castiel raises his eyebrows, and then he smirks, deciding against answering that outright. “I’m going to make coffee,” he says, changing the subject. “Can you watch the computer?”

“I—yeah.” Dean looks at the monitor blankly, a deep-set frown on his face. “Yeah, I can do that. Make me some as well.”

Castiel’s phone buzzes. They both start.

It’s almost one o’clock in the morning. What kind of phone call comes at one o’clock in the morning? Castiel doesn’t recognise the number that appears on his screen. He shoots Dean a bemused glance as he raises it to his ear. “Hello?”

It’s Riley. He’s been arrested.

* * *

 

“We were downstairs the whole time!” Dean curses, and they’re on the road towards Bozeman now but this whole thing feels like some kind of cruel joke. “How did he sneak past us?”

Castiel shrugs stiffly, his hands on the wheel. “He doesn’t know, Dean. He just woke up there, at the police station.”

“And Kenneth Brown, he’s dead?”

“Of course he’s dead.” There are no other cars approaching, so Castiel turns on the high beams, scanning the road ahead for a sign. “Katrice, she must have possessed Riley and made him go after her husband.” _Ghost possession_. That’s something he hasn’t seen in years. She must have been pissed as hell. Understandable, with a death like hers.

“Too bad he was at the police station,” Dean says wryly. “She must have been listening to us earlier and figured out that she didn’t have a lot of time left to get back at Kenneth.” He looks out the window impatiently. “I don’t know how we’re gonna talk our way out of this one. I’ll think of something.”

“I’ll put on my suit before we get there,” Castiel says. “I can be his attorney.”

“What about me?”

“You scope the place. I’m not letting him go to prison for this; if we have to break him out, we will. We need a Plan B.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I don’t think he’d appreciate a life on the run from the law, man.”

“Plan B,” Castiel repeats, as though that answers everything.

The last time he encountered ghost possession was seven years ago; it’s not often that a ghost gets that angry.

Katrice was ripped to shreds and eaten alive by the animals she had cared for because her husband had starved them and then put her at their mercy. If anyone is going to be angry enough to possess a living person, it’s her.

What about now, though? She had snuck past Dean and Castiel and made it to the police station; that much he’s figured out. According to Riley, he had regained consciousness standing over Kenneth’s body. Katrice had used his body to singlehandedly break into the station, overpower the cops on duty and murder her husband in his holding cell.

That’s going to be a nightmare to explain.

They stop at a 24-hour gas station on the way so Castiel can change. When they arrive, Castiel drops Dean off halfway up the road and goes the rest of the distance ahead of him. The police station is a mess when he finally stops in front of it; the door has been knocked off its hinges, and when he makes his way through the frame, carrying a large briefcase in his hand—it’s all part of the disguise—there is nobody behind the desk to greet him.

That changes a minute later when a woman in her forties wearing a police uniform emerges from a door behind the desk. “Can I help you, sir?” she asks briskly, and Castiel notices an adhesive bandage attached to her temple not unlike the one he had left Lawrence with after the accident there.

He holds out one of the numerous fake I.D.s he carries in his glove box. “I’m here to see Brock Riley,” he explains. “I’m his lawyer.”

She accepts the card and looks at it with a frown, and Castiel holds his breath. She hands it back. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Dravot.”

Her hand is extended, and Castiel shakes it. “I understand that my client has caused…quite a disturbance.”

The police officer’s expression darkens. “He came in at around midnight,” she explains, leading him to another door at the side of the room. “Broke the door down on his way in and overpowered three police officers like they were nothing, then he grabbed the keys to the holding cell and went straight for one of the men we had in custody. Killed him on the spot with his bare hands. Most of us are thinking drugs.” They start down a long hallway while the officer radios ahead to let her colleagues know he is there.

Castiel sets his jaw for a moment, trying to gauge what they already know. “This man he killed, can I ask who he was?”

“Kenneth Brown—we brought him in earlier today on account of murdering his wife. He’d even confessed to the crime. Riley seemed intent on killing him, though; he ignored everyone else in the building. It was something personal, but he’s refusing to speak to anyone until you get here.”

 _Smart man_. They’ve reached a door now, and the officer opens it, revealing an empty room with a table at the centre. “You can use this to talk to your client; we’re having him brought here now.”

“Thank you.” Castiel takes a moment to assess the room. There’s a security camera in the corner, and he makes an effort to appear disinterested.

“Good luck.” The officer looks dubious as she bids him farewell, but Castiel appreciates her lack of further comment. To them, his case seems like a hopeless one; they have three witnesses and the station’s security footage to attest to the fact that Riley had killed Brown, and they wouldn’t be wrong.

Even he isn’t feeling very hopeful. He might know that Riley is innocent, but he can’t exactly tell them the truth.

While he waits for Riley to arrive, he pulls out his phone, surprised to see a text message from Dean.

_Outside with computer, going to check their cameras. Five minutes. D_

It takes a painfully long time to type out a reply, and he can physically feel the camera in the corner watching him.

_What for?_

He slides his phone into his pocket after sending the text, and Riley is brought in a moment later. The man looks awful; he’s still wearing his pyjamas, and he’s squinting, his glasses nowhere to be seen. He looks lost and helpless, not at all like somebody who just committed a murder, although his face remains stony with stoicism.

Upon seeing Castiel, his whole body sags with relief, and he is led over to the table.

Neither of them says a word until the man escorting Riley is gone.

“That Katrice is one crazy bitch,” Riley remarks dourly.

“One angry bitch.” Castiel assesses him with a frown. There’s a dark bruise on his hand, possibly from where he’d broken the door. Given where they are, he could just as easily have been shot. “Are you alright?”

“Had better days, I’ll admit. There’s black goo in my ear and I just got arrested for murder, no thanks to you.”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel feels a pang of guilt. This man has put his faith in them and they have failed him big time. They’d told him he was safe. He even was; all they had to do was watch the front door and this would never have happened.

Riley looks decidedly unimpressed with this apology, and Castiel can’t find it in himself to blame him. “Just get me the hell out of here, man. I could have called my real lawyer just now.”

“We’re working on that.” How, he isn’t sure yet.

“Where’s Dean, by the way?”

As if in answer, Castiel’s phone buzzes, and he frowns, pulling it out again.

_Can see you. D_

Castiel smiles to himself. “There,” he says, eyes flicking to the security camera in the corner, and Riley follows his gaze, starting when he understands.

“Please tell me you have a plan,” Riley mutters, and there’s a flicker of hope in his eyes. “I’m really not up to becoming a fugitive. I’m just a zookeeper.”

“I’m hoping we’ll be able to negotiate something,” Castiel says. “Breaking you out wouldn’t be ideal, but it’s our worst case scenario. It’s our fault you’re in this mess; we’re not just going to leave you here.”

“You’re really reassuring me.” It’s layered with sarcasm.

Castiel sighs. “No, we don’t have a plan. But we will, alright? Believe me. Right now, we just need to concentrate on your immediate future.” He looks around the room thoughtfully, and Riley sits back, folding his arms, still unimpressed.

“I’m starting to think you hunters aren’t all you’re cracked up to be.”

“Nothing is ever all it’s cracked up to be.”

They’re interrupted by another text message from Dean, and Castiel picks it up in frustration.

_Give me a minute._

Castiel can feel Riley’s eyes on him as he replies.

_What are you doing?_

Unsurprisingly, there’s no immediate response, and Castiel decides to just pocket the phone again in case any of the cops are watching and start to get suspicious. He knows enough about law to get around it on a regular basis, but he’s no lawyer. If they realise something is wrong and discover he isn’t legitimate, he’s going to be just as at their mercy as Riley is.

Well, not completely. He did bring a gun inside with him, but he’d rather not use it.

He sets his briefcase on the table, because that’s something that lawyers do. “Katrice finally got what she wanted,” he says, making Riley look up. “She got back at Kenneth for killing her. She used you to do it, but for all intents and purposes, she should be at rest now. She’ll never bother you again.”

Despite everything, Riley seems genuinely pleased. Small pleasures. “Well, at least she gets to walk away from all this,” he says dryly. “Could have at least had the decency to stick around until everything was over.”

“It’s one less thing we have to deal with,” Castiel offers, like that will somehow make their situation any better. “The cops are going to have questions for you; you broke down the door to the station and incapacitated three of them. They’ll want to know how you were physically strong enough to do that. Right now, they suspect drug use.”

“I know, they’ve done tests.”

“What happened?”

“I was clean, what do you think happened?” Riley sighs. “They’ve taken some more samples and they’re waiting for the results on them. I’ve been refusing to talk to them but since they think I have an attorney now, they’re going to want answers quick. What should I do?”

 _I don’t know because I am not a lawyer._ “You should let me do the talking,” Castiel says. “If it comes to that.”

Riley scowls. “Look, I’m sorry for being a pessimist, but I really don’t want to go to jail. I have—responsibilities. My zoo would fall apart without me, end up belonging to assholes like Kenneth and Katrice. I called you because I knew a lawyer wouldn’t believe me but forgive me for not putting my faith in you; you told me I was safe.”

“I’m sorry!” It’s more forceful than he had intended, and he drops his voice immediately. “Mr. Riley, I’m sorry, I am. You want an honest answer? I have no idea how to convince these people you’re an innocent man. Dean and I can get you out of here, no problem. We can even erase the police footage of you killing that man and all the records that you were here, but I can’t erase these witnesses memories. There’s no walking away from this and acting like it didn’t happen.”

“So what, I’ve got to run away, is that it?” Riley stares at him in disbelief. “I’ve got a life here. No way is some dead person kicking me out of my home.”

Castiel looks at him helplessly. Riley hasn’t done anything wrong, and he knows it. “I want to help you,” he says, sincere. “I honestly do. But I’m not going to beat around the bush. It’s going to take a miracle to talk you out of this one.”

“Excuse me.”

Both of them turn abruptly as the door opens, revealing the police officer who greeted Castiel at the entrance.

“This has been a terrible misunderstanding,” she says. “Your supervisor is here; he’s explained your situation. You’re free to leave whenever you want.”

* * *

 

He’s too lightheaded to make sense of anything. He goes through the motions; he gets up and questions the officer, but she simply says that everything has been taken care of, and both he and Riley are escorted back to the front of the station. They even thank them for coming.

The fact that he’s surprised to see Dean standing there beside a second cop, clad in a pressed three-piece suit and the biggest shit-eating grin that Castiel has ever seen, is surprising in itself. After catching Castiel’s eyes, the smile is gone as soon as it appears. He clears his throat, stepping forwards and shaking both Castiel and Riley’s hands in turn.

“Agents,” he says brusquely, “I’m sorry I took so long. I’ve explained everything to the police force here. You gave them quite a scare.”

The first cop, their escort, shakes her head in apology. “You’ll have to forgive us for apprehending you, Agent Edwards. We’re just trying to do our jobs.”

Riley looks like he’s going to splutter. “I—”

Both Castiel and Dean speak before he does. Castiel decides to let Dean finish. “Brown is dead now,” he goes on, shaking his head slightly. “That’s unfortunate, but unavoidable. The FBI will be taking his body into custody as soon as we can organise a changeover.”

It feels like Castiel is standing in the middle of his own dream. The rational part of his brain isn’t following this conversation. It doesn’t make sense, almost like there are pieces of it missing, but for some reason, he accepts it, like he knows it isn’t normal but sees it as such anyway. It’s surreal. It’s _too easy_. That’s what he’s thinking; far too easy, even for Dean.

A fact which unsettles him even more than the prospect of not being able to help Riley at all.

Why haven’t these people, these trained law-enforcement officials, picked up in how wrong this is? He looks them over with a frown, trying to pick any sign of…drugs, hypnosis, anything out of the ordinary. As far as he can tell, there’s nothing off about them at all.

His eyes narrow in Dean’s direction, and the man lowers his head minutely, like he can feel it.

“We should take care of the body until then,” the man beside Dean says, and Castiel turns his attention to him. He does not look impressed. “I expect we’ll be hearing from your people very soon. Care to explain exactly what Brown did that warranted having your own agents break in? Why wouldn’t you have just called us to collaborate? We almost killed him.”

“That would have been unfortunate.” Dean stares down the other man, his expression calculative and emanating authority. The hair on the back of Castiel’s neck prickles at the sight. Dean is tall enough to be imposing at the best of times. Right now, he is downright intimidating, and it’s no accident. “Lucky for all of us you didn’t.” He smiles, but only with his mouth. “Unfortunately, that information is classified; these agents were working undercover for a damn good reason. All you need to know is that the FBI has been searching for Mr. Brown for several years. Our intention was to avoid involving your force but unfortunately, you got to our suspect before we did. As of now, we’re taking it out of your hands.”

“What are we supposed to write in our report?”

Dean leans down so that the two of them are eye-to-eye. “I couldn’t care less about your damn report, officer,” he says, menacing. “You figure it out. If you don’t mind, you and your people have held up my agents long enough, and we have paperwork of our own to deal with. I’d like to be going now.”

The man swallows, but he backs off, going to stand next to his colleague while Castiel and Riley go to stand on either side of Dean. Riley has adopted a hardened exterior, which Castiel admires him for; there are few men able to pull off an undercover Fed while wearing their pyjamas.

Dean straightens up, and he smiles then, almost apologetic. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he goes on, turning towards the doorframe. “The FBI will be happy to cover the cost of replacing your door, if your insurance doesn’t. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you very soon.”

* * *

 

“Dean,” Castiel growls.

“Just keep walking.” Dean makes a beeline for the Impala, and the others follow him. “Brock, are you okay, pal? Sorry it took so long.”

Riley looks over his shoulder. “The hell did you tell them?”

“As far as they’re concerned, you’re a cop on the case of Kenneth Brown who’s been working undercover—you don’t need to worry about them bothering you again. By the time I’m done—” He slides into the back seat of the Impala, where his laptop is set up. “—There’ll be no record of a Brock Riley even visiting the station tonight, and they aren’t gonna track you down, I’ll make sure of it.”

“ _Dean_.” Castiel is fed up with this. He doesn’t even care about not making a scene in front of Riley. Dean has done _something_. Dean has been doing an awful lot of _somethings_ ever since they were in Lawrence, and Castiel is sick of being treated like a moron who doesn’t notice when things are out of place. There’s no amount of verbal persuasion and hacking skills that could pull off…whatever it was that just happened. It isn’t natural, and he’s calling bullshit.

Dean can sense that, too. It’s obvious in the way his shoulders go tense while Castiel slides into the driver’s seat.

“I don’t know.” Riley looks over his shoulder dubiously at the police station as they drive away. Castiel has already decided he is going to come back if he can’t get Dean to talk, but the time to investigate is not right now, when their companion is barefoot and missing his glasses. They have to go. Riley turns back to Dean. “That seems a little hard to buy; I mean, look at me. Were they stoned?”

“No, they were not—just—just trust me, okay? They’re fine, we’re fine, everyone’s fine. Well, except Kenneth, I guess.”

Castiel wrings his hands on the steering wheel, uncomfortable. _What have you done?_ “If Katrice killed Kenneth,” he says, eyes fixed straight ahead, “Her spirit will be at rest. Riley and his animals are safe.”

“Which is great. Really great,” Dean mutters, tapping his knee repeatedly. “We can leave tomorrow after we pick up the body and burn it.”

“That’s it?” Riley asks dryly. “You’re just going to up and leave? I killed someone. Trust me, I hated that guy, but he didn’t deserve to—”

“No, you didn’t,” Castiel says, cutting him off firmly. “Don’t go down that road. What happened was not your fault.” He looks at Dean, eyes narrowing. “You don’t have to worry about the police looking for you again,” he continues, voice cautious. “Just go back to your zoo and live your life.”

He’s trusting Dean with this. Where every instinct is screaming that Riley cannot possibly be safe, that the police cannot possibly have believed what they did, he’s trusting Dean’s word that the opposite is true. _That’s not healthy_.

Dean’s head is still pointing stubbornly downwards, although his laptop is now closed, but he glances at Castiel, looking up, and the two of them lock eyes in the mirror for a second before Castiel tears his gaze back to the road.

Their silence lasts several seconds longer than what is considered acceptable.

* * *

 

They get back to the zoo at almost three a.m.

Possession takes it out of you. At least, Castiel assumes it does, because sheer exhaustion is the only explanation he has to offer as to how Riley is able to sleep after what just happened to him. He’s relieved, in a way; the man deserves a break. Given what occurred the last time he dared to chance unconsciousness, the odds are he’s not going to be sleeping so soundly for a while. Either way, when Riley pushes past them to get to his bedroom as soon as they return to the house, Castiel is just pleased he won’t be spending tonight in a holding cell.

Dean, of course, attempts to palm Castiel off in a similar manner. As soon as they’re alone, they pause, standing beside the front desk.

“I’ll watch the monitors just in case we’ve still got activity,” he says, gesturing to the staircase that leads upstairs to the living quarters. “And keep an eye on the doors, make sure Brock can’t wander off again. I’d feel better that way. You ought to sleep while you can.”

“What did you do?”

Dean is more insistent now. He’s almost…nervous. “It’s too late for this, man,” he mutters, giving Castiel a slight push towards the door and turning away. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll talk then, okay?”

Fucking hell.

Castiel grabs his wrist to stop him from walking away and promptly spins him around, pushing him back against the desk, and maybe it’s unnecessary but Castiel is tired and he’s not in the mood to be one more person that Dean has fooled. Dean goes totally limp, letting himself be moved, and when his back hits the desk, he’s staring downwards, not looking at Castiel.

“What did you do, Dean?” Castiel’s voice is softer now, and he releases Dean’s wrist.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Castiel shakes his head, scowling. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not—”

The urge to shake him is overwhelming. He doesn’t shake him, although the look in his eyes is murderous. “Riley ran into that police station in his pyjamas and killed a man in custody with his bare hands.” The way Dean is leaning, his head is lower than Castiel’s, and Castiel takes advantage of that now to stare him down. “And you expect me to believe you convinced the police he was a Fed on charisma alone? Dean, I’m not a fool.”

“No, you’re not. Just—” Dean shoves him away, and Castiel doesn’t resist, just comes to a halt a few feet from where Dean is standing. “Just get off me, first?” The man shoots him a glare.

“Are you going to tell me?” Castiel folds his arms, and Dean no longer looks evasive. He looks angry.

“It was a spell.”

Castiel runs a hand over his face. This is what he was afraid of. “Dean—”

“It was Enochian; my father taught me. Just a bit of memory alteration and image perception—that’s _it_. As soon as Kenneth’s body is gone and there’s nothing left to—”

Castiel punches him.

It’s like hitting a marble statue, but Castiel doesn’t care. Dean jerks backwards, anguish across his face, and the pain that assaults Castiel’s knuckles is almost welcome, because at least it distracts him from that.

“What were you thinking?” he shouts, and Dean touches his cheek where Castiel’s hand has been, raising his head to gawk at him in disbelief. “Dean, what were you _thinking_?”

“I was thinking I’d save an innocent man from prison!” Dean shoots back, straightening up. “Which is more than I can say for how you were getting on.”

“I’d have figured something out. Something that didn’t involve using magic on those people.”

Dean laughs, humourless and incredulous. “No, you wouldn’t. Cas, I didn’t want to. I’m not a witch, okay? I don’t go about using spells to win lotteries, I’m trying to help people.”

Castiel grabs the front of Dean’s dress shirt. “Is there anything else you just weren’t planning to tell me about yourself?” he demands, bringing him into a headlock. “Your—your family, the one that’s trying to kill your brother, now they practice magic? I thought you hated your family.”

“I do.” Dean doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even move; he’s gone rigid under Castiel’s hold. “Cas, dammit, I do. I hate those sons of bitches more than I can possibly say, but you…you can shut up.” He brushes Castiel’s hands away like they’re made of cotton. “Things that are supernatural aren’t always bad. Christ, you haven’t even given me a better damn option. You hunters are all one-sided. I thought you were different, but you’re all the fucking same.”

“Dean.” Castiel rests a cautious hand upon Dean’s arm, and they’re both standing more or less upright now, Dean an inch or so above Castiel, “I can help you.” He clenches his other fist, but it’s an action born of frustration; he has no desire to hit Dean again. “I can help you find your brother, and track down this demon; I can even help you deal with your family, if that’s what you need. But using spells?” He shakes his head. “I don’t care if it’s Enochian—a spell is a spell. It’s the top of a slippery slope, and when you use it on other people…Dean, it’s too dangerous, I’m sorry.”

Dean shakes his head, expression remorseful. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you don’t get it. I’m sorry you’re just another narrow minded human fucking being.” His eyes harden into final glare. “Sam was wrong.”

It throws Castiel off-guard for a second, wondering what the hell that is supposed to mean, but Dean, apparently, doesn’t want to explain. A nerve has just been struck; he stalks past Castiel, making his way around to the door behind the desk. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he mutters, anger and no small amount of hurt in his tone. “I’m going to sit the rest of this night out, unless you have a problem with that.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Castiel doesn’t make to leave immediately, in spite of how much he wants to. Part of him wonders if he’s being too harsh—Dean is his friend, Dean cares about people, Dean is a good man—even as the rest of him cringes at the thought. Magic. He’s met enough well-meaning witches to know how this story ends. That kind of power gets to a person’s head; it’s inevitable.

Dean’s family hasn’t exactly set a good track record, after all. Dean hates them; they’re trying to _kill_ one of their own. Whatever they’ve taught him about how well-intended spells can be used, they don’t know what they’re talking about.

He’s not stupid. He knows Dean has a point; Castiel had no solution to offer that could have helped Riley in the way Dean did. Backed into a corner where the facts were laid before him and the call was given to him, he probably would have made the same one rather than leave Riley to the mercy of the law. What he’s really angry about, what prompted his outburst, is concern. He’s worried about Dean. There is just so much about him that he doesn’t know, and it’s getting more and more obvious that in the end, it’s going to be one of these things that gets him killed.

“Goodnight, Cas.”

Dean disappears into the monitor room, closing the door behind him.

The conversation isn’t over, not by a long shot. Castiel isn’t going to apologise to Dean for saying what he said, because he’s right, at least in part, but if they’re going to continue their partnership, they need to get their facts straight.

Surprisingly enough, he does end up going to bed. He’s been awake for twenty solid hours, and those hours have not been kind to him. It annoys him more than it should that he can’t help Dean to do the same.

* * *

 

“My car is gone,” Riley says.

Actually, both their cars are gone, because Dean drove away in the Impala sometime before Castiel woke up. According to the security footage, that time was just after seven a.m.; three hours ago. Phone calls and text messages have returned nothing; Castiel doesn’t know where Dean has gone or even when he plans to come back. All he knows for sure is that being asleep past eight o’clock has never once turned out well for him and today is no different.

“Your car is gone,” Castiel repeats, looking up as Riley enters the room in a khaki uniform and stops in front of where Castiel is seated behind the admin desk with his laptop.

“It must be near the police station,” Riley says, rubbing his eyes. “I can’t think of how else Katrice could have gotten there as quickly as she did.”

That sounds like a valid point. “We weren’t exactly looking for it last night,” he admits. “But Dean and I are going back there this afternoon to pick up Brown’s body and…check on the cops. We could take you with us to look for it.”

“Thanks.” Riley looks a mess. He leans against the desk like something is giving him pain. His glasses are slightly askew but he hasn’t made a move to fix them, and his eyes are sunken and dark, half-lidded with tiredness.

It’s written all over his face; his encounter with them has been… unsatisfactory. Castiel feels a rush of guilt. If he and Dean had never shown up, Katrice’s spirit would have moved on without intervention, and if they hadn’t figured out about the clotting factor, it’s conceivable that she would never have tried to go after her husband. They haven’t helped Brock Riley by coming to his aid. All they’ve given him are bad memories and a broken gift shop.

Riley knows that, too. Whatever he was hoping for, he has been let down. Castiel doesn’t blame him for being angry with them—it’s a credit too his own generosity that he was willing to put them up last night at all.

Castiel clears his throat awkwardly. “How was…the zoo?”

“Still ticking away.” He taps his fingers on the surface of the desk, staring at nothing. “Wolves are very social animals. So are lions, you know. They don’t cope so well with loss, but they’ll be okay. Just need a bit of time.”

“I’m sorry.”

Riley shrugs, strained. “Any sign of Dean?” he asks, looking at Castiel directly.

“Not yet.” Castiel closes his laptop. He’s angry, of course; Dean left without him, although he isn’t keen to have a conversation with him after last night. He will come back, though, Castiel is sure about that. “He’ll be back when he’s ready.”

Riley snorts. “Let me know when he does,” he mutters. “I’ve got work to do. I’ll see you later.”

Castiel watches him as he leaves the way he’d come, picking up the walkie-talkie on his shirt to send some message to the other zookeepers. The ghost is gone, but this case still feels very much like a failure.

Wherever Dean went when he left, he took his laptop with him. He rarely goes anywhere without it. He has, however, left the spellbook behind; it was sitting at the foot of the spare bed when Castiel woke up, almost like a peace offering, or a promise, he’s not sure which. Either way, Dean won’t leave Bozeman without it; it’s a guarantee that he’s not going to pike completely after their argument.

Castiel listens to the _Supernatural_ episode Dean uploaded last night, before they received Riley’s call. He offers his listeners a recap of the case, albeit changing the location and names, before launching into a one-sided discussion about ghosts and how they attach themselves to objects. He introduced a new segment recently, to make up for the fact that he can’t take calls now that he records from the road; he reads some of the messages sent to him and answers inquiries that way. It’s halfway into that segment that he hears the door open once again.

Dean Winchester looks tired. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept in days. He looks like the rest of his life, pushed unceremoniously into an attic, is spilling out and he has never had a chance to learn how to cope. He looks a mess, and he smells like fire.

“I burned Kenneth’s body,” he says, dropping the keys to the Impala in front of Castiel. “All the security footage and the case report are gone from the police servers and their backup drives. Riley’s record is clean.”

“You have been busy,” Castiel remarks, voice quieter than usual as he picks up the key, frowning.

“How’s your nose?”

“Fine.”

“How’s Brock?”

“I don’t think it would be appropriate to consider him a fan anymore,” Castiel admits, “but he’s okay. I think we should leave as soon as we’re able; he’ll manage just fine without us.”

Dean nods slowly, looking at Castiel with a hint of uncertainty. “I think we should split up.”

Castiel looks up sharply. “What?”

“I’m not mad at you. I just think…we’re not on the same page, man.” Dean is smiling slightly, but it’s a pained smile, forced and meaningless. “I can’t change what I am, even if I wanted to, and I can’t change your mind about it.”

“Dean.” Castiel gets to his feet, dropping the car key into his pocket. The desk separates them. He doesn’t know what he’d do if it wasn’t there. “I _am_ sorry I… _disappointed_ you. You were right; there was no other way to help Riley, I get that.”

“No, you don’t.”

Castiel continues anyway. “You want to help people. I’m not equating you to people like Leonie Schulz—you’d never hurt someone in the name of a spell, but…you think this is just about helping people, but that’s never how it ends. I’m worried about you.”

“You don’t get it, Cas,” Dean repeats, shaking his head firmly. “My family—yeah, they taught me this stuff, but I’m not… _supposed_ to use it. At all. Not unless they tell me to.”

“Who is your family?” Castiel asks, helpless.

“They’re dicks. All of them except Sam.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“They studied Enochian,” Dean offers. “They know about that kind of magic, how to use it—it’s the most powerful magic around, and only a select few get to learn it. That’s all we’re meant to do, though; learn it. If we use it out of term, it’s a sin. An abuse of power. Sam, that’s what he was doing; using it out of term to help people. Healing, mostly, but protection as well.”

It suddenly makes sense. “That’s why you thought he’d be in Kermit. You thought he healed those people.”

“He did heal those people.” Dean’s jaw clenches. “I spoke to one of the patients; she saw him. She _saw_ him. He was there a day before I was but he left before I could get there.”

“Dean, I’m sorry.”

“Shut up. Just—just shut the hell up. Don’t you get it? You’re right; I can’t afford to do what I’ve been doing, because this is exactly what’s nearly gotten my brother killed. If the rest of my brothers ever find out…” He laughs, but there’s fear behind that laugh. “You know what, though? I’m not actually sorry. I stopped feeling sorry years ago when they tried to kill my brother. So when you come along lecturing me about how the road to hell is paved with good intentions, you know what I see?”

Castiel is silent for a long moment.

Dean leans closer. “I want to laugh at you. I really, really do.”

“We’re going to find what happened in Lawrence,” Castiel says, and he sounds different now, subdued. “Whatever our differences are, we can still do this one thing.”

“I’m not even sure I want to.” Dean turns away so that he’s leaning against the desk with his back to Castiel. “I’ve already told you so much fucking crap about my life. I’m wasting so much time with you.” He looks down, and he sucks in a shuddering breath, gesturing around the room. “All of this—cases, television, books—it’s just a distraction. I’m getting too entrenched. You’re not helping me.”

When Meg left, it had been on a cheerful note, full of teasing and snark and mutual understanding. Castiel had seen it coming, he’d been prepared, and he knew Meg well enough to know why. It hadn’t hurt, because he _got_ her. He got that she needed to be alone and he understood why.

With Dean, there’s all of the attachment with none of the comprehension. All Dean ever does is tell him more mysteries and all they ever do is make Castiel want to be with him more. Every half-truth and vague detail just draws him closer. More than that, though, it’s worse, because Castiel knows one thing about Dean; he’s already ‘entrenched’. He’s entrenched in his own life, in the family that he claims to hate and yet can’t break free of their bonds. Dean is scared of his family, whoever they may be, and he’s scared of losing Sam.

Castiel can help him with those. He’s not blind enough to miss that wanting Dean to stay is selfish, but he’s not blind enough to miss that Dean is better off with him there too.

“You need me,” he says simply.

“I don’t need you.”

Castiel folds his arms, impatient, and it stings, but that’s okay. “Then go.”

Dean looks over his shoulder, but he doesn’t turn around. “You don’t think I will?”

“I’ve learnt not to make guesses. But I would rather you stayed.”

This time, Dean does turn, hands holding the edge of the desk as he peers at Castiel.  “Why, Cas?”

It’s a loaded question. _Because I want to help you. Because I hunt better with you around. Because I haven’t smiled this much in years. Because you kiss like a fucking virgin and I want to shove you against the nearest wall and show you how to do it properly._ “Because I’m your friend.”

Pause. “Screw you.”

Except Castiel knows that tone of voice. His mouth quirks into a smile.

* * *

 

When they finally leave Bozeman, it’s almost midday. They say farewell to Riley, and he wishes them all the best before politely admitting that he never wants to see them again. Castiel can’t blame him. He likes Riley; it’s best that way.

They’re two hours down the highway when they stop in Billings and Castiel discovers the stuffed orang-utan in the trunk. The only explanation he gets from Dean is a smirk.

He leaves it at the gas station.

There’s an air of tension between the two of them now. Dean isn’t visibly angry, but he doesn’t talk much as they head further east, even when he’s the one behind the wheel. A few times, Castiel attempts to ask him questions, but they are met with mutterings and shrugs and pushed aside without hesitation.

Maybe Dean isn’t angry with Castiel, but he’s angry with himself. As usual, Castiel has to wait for Dean to talk first if he expects any kind of interaction.

Eventually, Dean does talk first.

“Hey, Cas?”

Castiel turns his head towards the driver’s seat. Dean is still staring at the road ahead.

“Yes?”

“You’ve been hunting ten years, right?”

Castiel shrugs. “Almost eleven now.”

“And you hunted with Meg for, what, two of them?”

“I suppose so.”  

“What about the rest of that time?”

Dean is looking at Castiel now, the road be damned, and Castiel cocks his head. “Sometimes I run into other hunters during cases and we end up working together, but for the most part it’s just been me.”

The expression on Dean’s face changes subtly as he turns his attention back to the highway, lost in thought. “So you’ve been alone all this time.”

Castiel doesn’t know how to answer that. There are a few consistencies in his life, like Bobby and the other hunters he meets, but for the most part, his days have been long hours on the road with nothing but crackly radio stations to occupy his mind.  The only company he’s ever allowed himself have been strange men and women whose names he doesn’t ask, people with phone numbers he doesn’t write down. Yes, he’s been alone all this time.

“I’ve always hunted better on my own,” is what he says in the end, looking out the window. “It’s not out of some…need for solidarity, I just never had the time or the reason.”

“Okay.”

“Long-term company never really fitted into the equation; there’s a job I need to do, and I’ve had things I needed to learn in order to do that job.”

Dean is silent for a while, and Castiel feels him press the accelerator just a little bit harder. “Yeah, me too,” he says at last. 


	4. Peoria, Illinois

“It’s funny, you know,” Dean is saying, perched in front of his laptop when Castiel comes into the motel from outside. He gives Castiel a nod of acknowledgement as he sets a stack of Chinese takeaway containers on the table, but otherwise continues his spiel unabated. “Even with believers like you and me, there’s a whole lot of scepticism about a whole lot of stuff. It’s one thing to accept the existence of werewolves when one is coming towards you with its teeth out, but we’re still human beings; it’s completely different to believe in Hydras and the Kraken, because who the hell is ever going to see one of those things just walking the streets? Sea monsters attract a lot of laughs for that reason, but they’re pretty cool, when you know a bit more about them.”

Castiel goes to fetch plates while he listens to the rest of the recording, making an effort to be quiet. The motel they’re staying at in Mitchell, South Dakota, is questionable at best; the bathroom is mildewy and the beds smell like cigarette smoke. It’s cheap, though, and their budget will thank them.

When Castiel sets the plates down at the table and opens the lid on the first container, Dean is nearing the end of the recording and since it’s Friday, there won’t be another episode for three days. Dean’s theme of the episode has been sea monsters. _Sea monsters_. Castiel left somewhere around the ten minute mark to pick up their dinner, but he may have to go back and listen to the rest of it.

“Sea monsters?” he asks incredulously as Dean closes his computer.

“What?” Dean sits at the table opposite him, pulling a plate towards himself and sorting through the containers with a frown.

“Nothing.” Castiel shakes his head wryly. “It just seems a little…I don’t know, fictional.”

“Ha.” Dean heaps a pile of sweet and sour pork onto his plate. “So _Twilight_ is totally legit but not _Pirates of the Caribbean_? I’m disappointed in you, Cas.”

Castiel holds up his hands. “I haven’t met one before, that’s all I’m saying.”

Dean nods. “Neither have I,” he admits. “So for all I know, I could be spouting lies.” He grins. “The thing is, though, ‘cause of the nature of supernatural beings that live in the water, people just never butt heads with them. Hunters can’t go after ‘em and they almost never get the chance to attack humans anyway. It’s a pretty good life for them, all things considered. There are a lot of creatures like that, that go under the radar and just never get seen enough for hunters to figure out that they’re the real deal.”

“Like demons?”

Dean’s expression darkens. “Yeah, like demons.”

“I’ve always thought of demons as being…religious propaganda.” Castiel jabs his fork into a piece of chicken but doesn’t eat it yet. “A scare tactic. Even now I’m not…entirely convinced.”

This makes Dean perk up, interested. “You’re not religious?”

Castiel shrugs. “I don’t know anymore,” he confesses. “Before all of this—” He gestures around the motel. “—I was a Christian. Went to church every Sunday. I’m even named after an angel.”

“But you don’t have faith anymore?”

“What am I meant to hold on to?” Castiel asks. “I wouldn’t say I’ve…dismissed the idea entirely, but I’ve seen a lot of pain and a lot of suffering. Too much to still kid myself that there’s a higher power that gives a damn. Maybe I believe in God but there’s no way he believes in us, not anymore.”

Dean looks down. “Right, I get it.”

Castiel frowns. That’s a surprising response. “Are you…religious?”

“Hell is a thing. Demons are a thing. That much I know for sure. This world is too shitty to not have a pit full of demons writhing underneath it.” Dean puts a forkful of food in his mouth, and Castiel waits in silence as he chews and swallows. “As for heaven? And God?” He chuckles. “Yeah, I believe it’s real, but not that it’s paradise. There’s no such thing as paradise and if there was, it doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. I’m never going there.”

It takes a moment for Castiel to finish chewing. “Your family,” he says, breaching the subject cautiously, and Dean visibly tenses. “They study a language that’s supposed to be the language of angels. What do they believe?”

Dean is suddenly shoving more food into his mouth, either to avoid talking or because he is extremely hungry. Probably both. Finally he says, “We believe in angels, and heaven and all that crap. It’s kind of in the job description.”

Castiel is slowly putting together an image of Dean’s background, and the people from whom he came. They sound like a religious cult, keeping their children apart from the rest of civilisation in order to drill their doctrine into their heads without interference from the outside world. When Sam wanted to go against that doctrine, they had tried to kill him, and now Dean has broken free in order to search for him.

Part of him realises that he should be concerned. If Dean has run away from his family then chances are that his family will be looking for him too. They’re looking for Dean, and for Sam, and if they are at all like Dean says then they’ll be looking for the demon as well. Everything he is doing with Dean is bringing them further into the firing line when what they should be doing is getting as far away from it as possible.

He is concerned, but not enough to argue.

“What is the job description, exactly?”

“Scholar? Servant? I don’t know, it depends.” Dean shrugs, staring intently at his plate, and doesn’t offer more of an answer.

Castiel’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t push. It would be pointless.

Instead, he changes the subject after an appropriate amount of time has lapsed. “I think,” he says, “under different circumstances, I’d be quite a fan of your show.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Castiel looks at him.

Dean smirks. “You’re already a fan of my show.”

Castiel’s lip quirks. He’s not wrong. “I’m serious, you know. I do enjoy it, against my own better judgement; you know your material. Your fans like you a lot, myself included.”

“Well, cry me a river.” Dean winks at him as he takes another bite of food. His next words are mumbled inelegantly around the mouthful. “Shucks, Cas. You want an autograph to go with that?”

It’s laden with sarcasm, but Dean is as vulnerable to flattery as the next person and Castiel knows it. Of course, he’s picked up sometime during their travels that Dean has had very little experience in that regard. “I’ll be alright without an autograph,” he tells him, going back to his own dinner. He’s starving; it’s taken almost eleven hours to get here from Bozeman, and by the time they managed to track down a motel that accepted late-night check-ins it was past midnight. They’ve been fortunate enough to find a 24-hour restaurant on their way into town, and Dean was somehow alert enough to finish his podcast while Castiel collected the food, but by now, his stomach is physically aching with hunger. It’s one of the rare occurrences when he opts to eat now and sleep later.

“Your loss,” Dean says with a shrug, digging into his food once more. He pulls out his phone then, and Castiel leans closer as he holds it up to show him. “On a different note, before you get too tired, this is the route we’re taking tomorrow.”

“What did you say the town was called?”

“Peoria, Illinois. Should take us about ten hours.”

Castiel takes the phone from him, flicking over the map on the screen to assess the route. “We go through Sioux Falls,” he observes, zooming in. It’s only an hour away from where they are now.

“So?”

Castiel hands the phone back to him. “Bobby Singer lives there,” he says, like it’s obvious.

“The hunter?” Dean frowns, accepting it. “What about him?”

“He’s the go-to authority on hunting, Dean. He’s…well, he’s a little rough around the edges, but he has ties all around the country and he’s the smartest man you’ll ever meet. If we can get his help in looking for Sam—”

“No,” Dean says.

It’s a long shot. Bobby is old and he’s busy most days and he doesn’t owe it to him to hit the books for something like this, especially when he and Castiel aren’t particularly close and Dean is not only a stranger but also, in his own words, a ‘right pain in the ass’. Even so, if they want to find Dean’s brother, Castiel can’t think of anyone else he would rather have on their side. It can’t hurt to ask.

Dean’s refusal is disheartening.

“We don’t have to tell him about the demon or your family,” Castiel continues. “Dean, he hears about other hunters’ cases on a daily basis. He spends his days finding patterns and looking for strange occurrences. If he hears about something out of place that might be Sam—like the miracle cure in Kermit—he can call us. I don’t think he’d refuse; it’s what he does anyway.”

“We don’t need help, Cas,” Dean says stubbornly. “I’ve got my show, and I’m looking—”

For fuck’s sake. “How well is that working for you?” Castiel can’t conceal his frustration. Dean glares at him.

“It’s not your job to look for my brother,” he says, irritable. “It’s not some old drunk’s either; it’s mine. Besides, this guy hates my guts. You told me so yourself.”

Bobby doesn’t really hate anyone’s guts—not on principle, at least—but he does have a tendency to distrust a person if he doesn’t have a reason not to. Coupled with the fact that Dean Winchester is most of the things Bobby dislikes about human beings in general, he can see Dean’s point. Still, Bobby is first and foremost a hunter; his role is mainly coordination now, but he’s dedicated his life to saving people from the supernatural. Castiel can’t see him refusing to help Sam.

On the other hand, what he can see him doing is blasting Castiel for his association with Dean, and Bobby is one of the few people whose opinions he respects enough for that to cause a problem. Chances are, with Castiel being mentioned on the episodes as frequently as he is, Bobby and every other hunter in America knows about it, too. He doesn’t mention this to Dean. “He’ll help, Dean. He can and he will. Even if he doesn’t, his salvage yard isn’t out of our way and he’s not going to shoot us on sight.”

Dean is clearly unhappy but, surprisingly, he acquiesces. “We’re not mentioning Sam’s name, understand? We just…ask this guy if he’s seen or heard of anything that might point to a miraculous healing and if he asks why, we leave.”

“Of course.”

“If it shuts you up.”

Castiel sets his fork down. “We’ll leave tomorrow, then. With any luck we’ll get to Peoria by the evening and find our witch the next morning.”

“Great.” Dean finishes eating just after Castiel does, standing to collect their plates and the empty containers. “Then goodnight.”

Their room consists of two single beds, and they both take one.

* * *

 

Castiel last visited Singer Salvage Yard almost four years ago; the cooling system in his Patrol had broken from a cause that almost resembled vandalism, and he was fortunate enough to be within driving distance of the place before he overheated. After letting him find a replacement part and fix the car, Bobby had gruffly bidden him farewell and sent him on his way. The man doesn’t like visitors. Understandable, considering most of his visitors are either police or hunters, and neither of those makes great company.

Driving to the place now, it occurs to him that he’s never actually seen or heard of it being used as an actual salvage yard. Certainly, there are a lot of old vehicles there, rusting away, but no indication that it runs as a functioning business. Maybe it was once, he doesn’t know. It may still be; where else would Bobby get his money?

Either way, when he pulls the Impala to a halt in front of Bobby’s house, there’s no sign of activity anywhere, at least not from the outside.

Beside him, Dean is looking around the lot with an air of disconnect. “You’re sure this guy’s going to be home?”

“No.” Castiel opens the door and gets out, casting his gaze around the yard one more time. “I don’t know his habits, Dean; most of us only talk with him on the phone.”

Dean smiles to himself at something only he finds funny. “Alright.”

They make their way to the front of the house, Dean falling into step behind Castiel while his eyes continue to scan the yard. “Just let me do the talking?” he says, more of a question than not, and Dean rolls his eyes but assents. Castiel raises a hand to rap on the door. “Bobby,” he calls, uncertain. “It’s Castiel Novak. Are you there?”

There’s no immediate answer. If Bobby isn’t home, it doesn’t come as a surprise; he didn’t answer the phone when he called earlier. He’s hoping it’s because Bobby is busy and not because he’s angry. At him. About royally fucking up the one favour he ever asked of him.

Silence ensues.

“We can try his phone again later,” Castiel says, already preparing to go.

“No, wait.”

The door creaks open, revealing a gruff-looking man in a beaten-looking cap. He doesn’t speak for several seconds, just stands there, assessing them both.

He’s also holding a shotgun.

“Hello, Bobby,” Castiel begins.

“What’s he doing here?” Bobby doesn’t invite them inside, and Castiel doesn’t ask him to. There is tension in the air, and he doesn’t need to be an expert to guess why.

Maybe he should have brought a bottle of alcohol or something. “This is Dean—”

“I know exactly who he is, idjit.” Bobby looks at Castiel sourly, and Castiel hates being under that kind of scrutiny. “I want to know what he’s doing on my porch.”

“I need to ask a favour,” Castiel says, getting to the point as quickly as possible.

“Yeah.” Bobby is still looking at Dean with narrowed eyes. “So does everyone else who comes here.”

Surprisingly, he steps back, allowing them to enter, although he’s still holding the shotgun. Even so, Castiel accepts the invitation, following him inside. Bobby stops Dean before he crosses the threshold. “Not him.”

Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Castiel shoots him a glare and he falls immediately silent, stepping back despondently. Castiel feels bad for him as Bobby closes the door unceremoniously.

Bobby’s house looks more or less the same as it always has, from the few instances Castiel has been inside it. There are books everywhere; in neat stacks on available surfaces, on the shelves scattered throughout the rooms, there are even some lying on the furniture, left half-read until they can be returned to later. Castiel knows that upon examination, most of these books will be about monsters; obscure texts on obscure creatures that nobody with any amount of sense would pay the slightest interest. Not Bobby Singer; if Bobby is a hoarder, he is a hoarder or knowledge. Hunter knowledge. There is nobody who knows more than Bobby when it comes to hunting.

He and Dean have a lot in common, really.

“He’s not dangerous, Bobby,” Castiel offers as the older man rounds on him, although he sincerely doubts that Bobby thinks he is. That’s not what he’s angry about.

“Care to explain to me _exactly_ what you think you’re doing, Cas?” Bobby demands, looking at Castiel with the most incredulous expression Castiel has ever seen.

“We’re just hunting together,” Castiel mutters honestly, feeling like a chastised child.

Bobby looks decidedly unimpressed. “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard all about it. Along with the rest of America, actually. You do remember what I asked when I called you? Because I’m starting to think I worded it wrong.”

Castiel looks up sharply. “I’m not a fool, Bobby; I wouldn’t just tag along with him for fame and glory. Dean is a good man; his cause is just.” He’s also practicing magic, but he leaves that out.

“You sure you ain’t a shapeshifter, boy? ‘Cause the Cas I know wouldn’t let his head get stuck this far up another man’s ass.”

“Bobby, I’m not—” Castiel stops himself. If Bobby genuinely believed he was a shifter he’d have made him cut his hand by now. “I don’t agree with what he’s doing. You know I don’t, for god’s sake! I didn’t just show up at his house and fall under some kind of spell. Dean, he’s—he’s a genius. He knows more about monsters than any of us. He’s an asset when it comes to hunting, and I’m utilising that.”

Bobby looks genuinely appalled. “In exchange for what? Movie rights? What’s gotten into you, Cas? You know how this is gonna end, and it ain’t good. Some monster’s gonna hunt you down.”

Castiel knew that coming here was a bad idea for exactly this reason but he’d come anyway and so he supposes it’s only reasonable that he be scolded. The thing is, Bobby is right; Castiel’s argument is weak and disjointed next to the steadfast truth that is the fact that Dean Winchester has turned his life into a reality show, with its own fan base and Wikipedia page. He’s allowed himself to get swept up in the very thing he met Dean to stop him from doing.

It’s worse that he’s not even sorry. Sure, he’s concerned. Not just about monsters or hunters finding him by somehow piecing together their location from clues in the episodes, but also about anyone else who might be on their trail, such as Dean’s family. The demon is a worry as well. Yes, he’s definitely concerned, but the possibility of parting ways with Dean has already come up and he made a conscious effort to stop it from happening. He’s prepared to put up with whatever risks he has to take; what could possibly be worse than what is already his life?

“I know, but…” It sounds so pathetic, and Castiel despises sounding pathetic but he doesn’t have anything close to a better answer to give. I know, but. _I know, but._ “Dean’s methods are wrong but he does want to help people. We’re on a case, it’s—something big.” He casts a look in the general direction of the front door, where he last saw Dean. The man made him promise not to mention the demon case, or Sam’s name, or anything else that might genuinely benefit a search. It’s going to make explaining things difficult. Castiel isn’t going to argue with him, though; not on this one.

Bobby does not look inspired. “That’s all the more reason not to be taggin’ along with this upstart. I always pegged you for a smart guy, Cas, but what you’re doing is just plain dumb.”

“I didn’t come here to argue with you, Bobby.” Perhaps it comes out slightly sharper than it was meant to. He doesn’t know, but from Bobby’s expression, it did. “I wanted to ask you if you’d seen any unusual cases.”

“Now, hold on, we ain’t done talking, boy,” Bobby says, and Castiel almost huffs. Almost. “If this was twenty years ago I’d have shot your buddy Dean in the ass the minute you showed up with him. You too. You know, as is, I still have half a mind to do that.”

Castiel doesn’t believe him, but the underlying message is clear enough; even if he _has_ decided to sit out on the ‘shutting down Dean Winchester’ campaign, other hunters haven’t, and other hunters aren’t as forgiving as Bobby Singer. If one decides that Dean is better off out of commission and Castiel is standing in the way, they’re not going to wait around to ender a debate. “I understand,” he says, serious. “I’d—probably do the same thing in your situation. I know how this must look.”

“This ain’t just about you, you know,” Bobby continues bluntly. “It’s about the whole damn community. Enough people start believing in fairy stories the country’s gonna get swamped with hunter-wannabes, and you already know how that one turns out.”

With _Ghostfacers_ entering its third season, Castiel knows exactly how that one turns out. “Dean isn’t like them,” he says anyway, and there it is; he’s defending _Supernatural_ to another hunter. “The whole point of his show is educating people so they know to take things seriously. I’m not—not saying it’s right, but you must have listened to the show. It’s just monster lore. Most of Dean’s fans think that the segments about him and I are just a bit of fiction to make it more interesting. It doesn’t convince people to believe in monsters; it attracts the attention of those who already have an interest and gives them some facts and figures to make what they want of.”

Knowing what he knows now, about Sam and why Dean started the show in the first place, it’s obvious that that was his intention all along.

“Hunters, Cas.” Bobby is still looking at him in disbelief, and Castiel’s eyes narrow in exasperation. “Monsters. It ain’t just harmless citizens listening to that show. You’re openin’ up a can of worms you don’t want to open up.”

“I can handle myself.” Castiel realises he’s looking at the door again. “So can he. He’s a great hunter, Bobby.”

Bobby takes a moment to shake his head in vexation. “You gonna tell me what you’re doing here?” he asks, irked, and Castiel counts it as a win because it’s the best he’s going to get.

“I needed to ask if you’d seen any unusual cases.” Bobby shoots him an unamused look, and Castiel continues. “Not deaths or disappearances, more like…miracles. Something that’s good but seems like it might have a supernatural cause; sudden healings, people getting rescued from danger for no reason...”

“You know, I’d have more to go on if I knew exactly what it was I was looking for.”

“We don’t know yet.” It’s a blatant lie but if Bobby notices, which he probably does, he doesn’t call him out on it. “Things like that have been happening all over the country. We think the same thing is responsible each time but we’re never able to get there fast enough to find it. If we can find more instances where they’re are happening we might be able to work out a route and see if there’s a connection.”

“Sure, what else am I here for?” Bobby mutters with irony as he makes his way into the kitchen, picking up a half-drunk bottle of beer from the counter. Castiel follows him.

“Is that something that happens?” he asks. “Supernatural creatures that help people?”

Bobby turns around, holding the bottle. “Now, how the hell would I know?” he asks. “There are bad sons of bitches out there that kill people, that’s all I care about. Maybe there’s more to it, but if there is then that’ll be a miracle in itself.” He takes a drink from the bottle.

“Either way, I want to find whatever it is we’re tracking, just to be certain. Dean does too. If it’s supernatural, it’s our job.”

Bobby shrugs, sighing with a roll of his eyes. “I’ll keep a watch out, call you if anything comes up. You might want to tell me about this other stuff you’ve found, give me somewhere to start.”

“The last one was in Kermit, Texas,” he says, because that’s not giving anything away that couldn’t have been discovered on its own. “There was an influenza outbreak that was, according to news reports, cured without explanation. Dean went to investigate and he thinks it’s legitimate.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure his word’s just gospel.” Setting down his bottle, Bobby heads back to the front door. “I’d give the Roadhouse a call, if I were you. Ash might be able to dig more up if you ask him real nicely.”

“Thank you.”

Bobby grunts. “Don’t thank me, Cas. I’m not doing you any favours by letting you go.”

Castiel smiles slightly when Bobby has his back to him. An old drunk, perhaps, but Bobby Singer is a hunter who can’t ignore a case even as he is the voice of reason for everyone else. Hunters would be nothing without him.

They open the door to reveal Dean still standing on the porch, contrite. He looks up abruptly when he realises they’re there, like he had been doing something wrong.

He and Bobby assess each other for several moments.

“I’m Dean,” Dean says, looking to Castiel as if for reassurance.

“I know.” His mouth forming a forced smile, Bobby extends a hand, and Dean shakes it. “Bobby Singer. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Yeah, I…I know.” Dean quirks his head and his expression mimics Bobby’s. “Sorry about that.”

Bobby snorts, looking past Dean until his eyes settle on the Impala. Then there’s a spark of interest. “That yours?”

Dean exchanges a look with Castiel. “Yeah, it sure is,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice when he realises Castiel isn’t going to stop him. “’67 Chevy. It’s a great car.”

Bobby raises his eyebrows as he looks at it. “You’ve kept it in decent condition, too. Good car for a hunter. A lot better than that monster of a thing he drives,” he adds, jerking his head in the general direction of Castiel, who scowls.

Dean, however, grins. “He tell you what happened to it? That thing had it coming.”

“What, it got dinged up?” The look Bobby directs at Castiel is caught somewhere between sympathy and amusement. “Ain’t that a damn shame.” The sarcasm is layered on.

Well, that just isn’t fair. The Impala is an impressive car, but even Castiel doubts its ability to hold its own in a semitrailer collision. “Why does everyone hate my car,” he mutters dourly. “At least it was less than ten years old.”

“Cas,” Dean says, sighing, “that’s exactly why everyone hates your car.”

From within the house, a phone rings, probably a hunter on a case, and without hesitating, Bobby ushers Castiel out the door. “Alright, then, get out of here,” he says gruffly. “I’ll let you know if I find anything that fits your bill, just don’t go calling me every other day for a damn status report. I ain’t a library service.”

“Thank you, Bobby.”

Bobby exhales a little harder than normal, and there may have been the edges of a smile on his face when he closes the door on them, but there’s no way of knowing for sure.

* * *

 

“He doesn’t seem so bad,” Dean says, once they’re back on the road to Peoria within the familiar confines of the Impala.

“He’s what you’d call rough around the edges, but he’s a good man,” Castiel says. “That went a lot better than I thought it would; he agreed to help us.” Maybe Castiel will take Bobby’s advice on board. He hasn’t visited the Roadhouse in a while. A trip to Nebraska may be in order once they’re finished in Illinois.

Of course, he can’t guarantee the kind of reception Dean would receive, considering the amount of hunters who frequent the bar, but if anyone can find a pattern where there is one to be found, it’s Ash, the computer genius who lives there along with its owner Ellen Harvelle and her daughter Jo.

“He has great taste in cars,” Dean continues, making Castiel want to roll his eyes. “He’s alright with me.”

“You look for the best traits in people.”

“Cars are one of humanity’s greatest inventions, Cas. I mean, they’re slow, and they break a lot, and they need a constant supply of fossil fuels, but they’ve revolutionised the way humans view transport. If we all tried to go back to horses and carriages now there’d be an uprising.”

When did Dean get so passionate about cars? “I’ll admit, hunting would be incredibly difficult without automobiles,” he concedes, shrugging. “Although I don’t see why you harbour such an immense dislike of modern cars.”

Dean shakes his head, disgusted. “Have you seen the latest Chevy Impala model?” he asks. “It’s…Jesus, it’s like every other car these days. All curves and no style. Like a bubble.”

“Modern cars are built for safety, Dean.”

“Don’t try telling me you can’t build something like this without crumple zones and airbags.” Dean’s eyes drag over the Impala’s dashboard fondly.  “There’s safety, and there’s fixing what ain’t broken.”

Castiel gives up. If Dean wants to be an elitist about vintage cars it’s his life and his choices. It makes him happy when he gets to call the Impala his. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, each touch to the steering wheel looking like a caress, Castiel wonders if Dean has ever owned a car.

After a while, he changes the subject.

“Tell me the name of this witch we’re looking for.”

“Ava Wilson.” Dean seems disappointed by the direction of the topic, but he snaps into formality almost immediately. “I wasn’t sure about her at first; she wasn’t actually alive in November when our little spike happened.”

“So why do you think she’s a witch?”

“Couple of reasons. Her parents were, from what I can tell by comparing their income with their lifestyle. More importantly, _they_ lived in Lawrence at the time. Ava was born nine months later.”

“So, Ava got conceived around the time the witch convention was in town,” Castiel says. “Presumably, her parents were witches, they raised her to be one too, but why are we talking to her and not them? If they were there at the time they would know more than their daughter, surely.”

“They’re dead.” Dean turns a serious look upon him. “They both died in a house fire when Ava was six months old.”

“A house fire.” Castiel frowns, considering. Dying in a house fire can be a coincidence, but like anything else, it can always be something more. “Did they find out the cause?”

“Reports said electrical fault, but who knows? Anyway, Ava was put up for adoption after that.”

“If she wasn’t raised by witches, why do we think she is one?”

“I did some digging around. Up until recently, she was pretty clean; nice fiancé, steady job, she even volunteers at soup kitchens. The only thing that really concerned me was that five months ago, her fiancé was brutally murdered in their apartment.”

“Oh.” That perhaps shouldn’t have come as a surprise. “Heart missing?”

“Actually, no. At least, not according to the autopsy report. It was violent, though. Like, metric crapload of blood, violent. But Ava wasn’t home at the time; she even had an alibi.”

With witches, that means very little, and it’s obvious from the fact that they’re still driving that Dean knows that as well. It does seem strange, though. Why would Ava kill her fiancé?

Well, that’s what they’re hoping to find out. They’ve chosen Ava as the one worth investigating, so investigate her they shall. If it turns out to be nothing more than a series of tragedies, there’s bound to be another name on Dean’s list, and Ava Wilson will be no worse off for it.

“Did they ever find out who did killed him?”

Dean snorts. “What do you think?”

“The murder’s going to be hard to investigate five months after it happened,” Castiel says. At least if it’s an ongoing investigation, it will be easier to pose as Feds.

“I know a few signs to look for,” Dean says. “What we’re really going there to do is talk to Ava. She might not know anything, but I have a feeling she does.”

“Why?”

“When her fiancé got killed, she quit her job and from what I can tell she stopped talking to her family and her friends. Now, I know what grief can do to a person; it’s normal to need a bit of…time off. But…well…” He trails off then, as if reluctant to go on. “There’ve been reports, around town. People going missing.”

“It’s a pretty big stretch to say those two things are connected, Dean.”

“Yeah, I know…” Dean shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and Castiel squints at him suspiciously. “Call it intuition?”

“Alright.” Dean isn’t telling him something. What a surprise.

“Thanks.” Dean’s shoulders relax slightly, but he’s holding the steering wheel tighter, like a lifeline. He knows that Castiel knows, and he’s not elaborating.

Of course he’s not; why would he? They’re only partners.

* * *

 

With Dean behind the wheel driving five miles above the speed limit, they reach Peoria a little under nine hours after leaving Bobby’s house. It’s just past four o’clock when they roll into town, and by the time they find themselves a motel—a halfway decent one this time with two double beds that almost makes Castiel forget about the one they subjected themselves to the night before—they’re both desperate to stretch their legs.

There’s an air of restlessness about Dean, something distinct from any way he’s behaved in the past. He isn’t spending every few seconds looking over his shoulder, but from the tension in his back and the short-tempered responses to Castiel’s half-hearted attempts at conversation, he might as well be. The most concerning thing was the drive; Dean didn’t play any music for the whole trip, even though he was the one driving, and even though their silence was hanging in the air like stagnant water in a pond. That is a message in itself.

They carry their belongings into the room, Dean claiming the bed closest to the door as his own by dumping his bag on it. Castiel takes the other without argument, making several trips to bring his weapons inside for cleaning and leaving them on his bed.

“I need to go out,” Dean says.

Castiel looks up from spreading out the guns. “It’s too late in the afternoon, Dean; if we go to Ava’s home now it’ll be dark by the time we get there. Feds wouldn’t do that.”

There’s a pause, and Dean shakes his head. “Not to talk to Ava,” he says. “We’ll see her tomorrow. Actually, I’ve got some personal stuff I need to take care of. I just need…an hour, maybe two.”

“What _stuff_?”

“None of your damn business.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “Alright,” he says cautiously, straightening up. Now?

Dean has been acting _off_ lately. Of course, it’s difficult to tell exactly what constitutes normal when it comes to Dean, so such an assertion means very little, but given the way he’s been behaving, keeping in mind where they actually are, on the demon case…there’s a connection, surely.

He isn’t Dean’s keeper. It’s not that he can stop him from going, or even that he needs him here; he can get started on organising this case without him for a couple of hours. What’s really grinding on his mind is…well, given how their last case ended, he’s reluctant to leave Dean alone. “Do you need help?”

“Nah, course not. When have I ever needed help?” Dean stretches, joints popping. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Blah, blah, don’t go playing with magic spells?” A smirk crosses Dean’s face. “Seriously, I just need to check something.”

‘Is this about Sam’ is the first question that springs to mind, and for the first time, Castiel wonders if Dean had a different motive for choosing to come here over somewhere else. Maybe he’d heard of another miracle cure in the area and used Ava Wilson as an excuse to investigate. The idea that Dean wouldn’t have simply told him that stings more than a little. What is he trying to hide?

Naturally, he doesn’t voice any of this to Dean. “I’ll just be here,” is all he says in the end. “I’ll double-check our facts and see what else I can find about Ava and her fiancé.”

“I’ll email you what I have,” Dean says, pulling out his laptop and opening it on the bed, staring intently at the screen for a minute while Castiel assesses him impatiently. “It’s mostly police reports, adoption records, stuff like that.” He closes the computer a few seconds later, shoving it into his duffle bag.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“I’ll be here.”

Apparently, Dean expected an argument. He hovers beside the bed for a fraction longer than normal, as if waiting for Castiel to say more. When he doesn’t, his lips purse. “Right.”

He drops the keys to the Impala on the table as he walks out, and Castiel’s gaze lingers on them long after the door has closed behind Dean.

Then he gets back to work.

Reading through the document scans Dean has sent him confirms what he said, about Ava and her parents. They were both low-income earners, but you wouldn’t have known it from the size of their house. It’s the sort of thing where a little tax fraud or black magic usually comes in handy. Dean hasn’t connected them to any deaths, and after a small amount of time researching, Castiel hasn’t either. He doesn’t have enough time to be spending a great deal of it on that.

He moves on to Ava herself. Surprisingly—or perhaps unsurprisingly—Dean hasn’t sent him any records of the disappearances he believes the woman is responsible for. Castiel frowns, considers emailing him, and doesn’t. Instead, he opts to do a little homework of his own.

The missing persons list in Peoria is as large as to be expected, dating back for years. Even after he narrows it down to people who went missing in the last five months, since Ava’s fiancé Brady was killed, he still has an unfairly long list of names to work through. Referring each person’s address and place of disappearance to a map of the city he collected at the motel reception desk is time-consuming, and at the end of it, he still has nothing to show for his troubles except for a seemingly random spread of coloured dots on his map. If any of them are connected to Ava, which he is starting to doubt, it isn’t clear from this alone.

He’ll ask Dean about it when he gets back, but he already knows how that conversation is going to play out.

In between reading and mapping, the time has somehow found its way to eight o’clock. Dean has been gone for over three hours, and he isn’t back yet.

Well, that’s his problem. Dean is a grown-up; he’ll find his way back in his own time. After a pause, Castiel opens a new window in his browser.

Sam Smith is the first name he tries, but for obvious reasons, it returns nothing of use, even after narrowing the search parameters. His next attempt is Sam Winchester. At least this one gives less results, but trying to relate them to anything even remotely specific—such as monsters or healing—is enough to prove that a simple Google search isn’t going to pinpoint Dean’s brother.

He doesn’t even know Dean’s real last name—because it isn’t ‘Smith’, whatever Dean has tried to convince him, and despite it having worked its way into his identity, Winchester is equally fictitious. Castiel doesn’t know anything about Dean’s family at all with the exception of the name of his brother and what he’s told him about their…practices. Where can he possibly start to look?

He does some background research on Enochian as well, but there’s nothing earlier than Kelly and Dee, and he’s already dedicated hours upon hours to studying their writings in his attempt to read more of the spellbook.

He peers past his computer screen at Dean’s duffle bag, which holds the book in question. The man left it behind. A sign of good faith? Whatever Dean has gone out to do, it doesn’t require the book.

Knowing Dean, of course, it’s possible that he doesn’t need it anymore. He’s probably committed it to memory, or transcribed it somewhere else. As far as Castiel knows, he hasn’t done any more on the translations since the night they spent at Riley’s zoo, which was interrupted, and while he didn’t express any reluctance to do those translations, Castiel is starting to have his doubts about his willingness to share his knowledge of Enochian with Castiel. He’s rather unwilling to share his knowledge about a great deal of things with Castiel.

To be completely honest, Castiel doesn’t like putting up with it. He’s never been particularly impatient, but he is still a hunter; the things people don’t know in this life are the things that get them killed.

He makes himself a cup of coffee. This time, he adds milk to it.

If he’s going to continue hunting with Dean, which he has every intention of doing, he’s going to need to stop thinking about what he doesn’t know. Distractions are easy to find; there’s a lot he needs to get done, even outside of research. Maybe he should get around to having that dentist appointment. He hasn’t checked the oil in the Impala since they bought it. When is the last time he visited his house to check if the tenant is keeping it in good condition? They’re already in Illinois—it wouldn’t take them too out of the way to go to Pontiac after they finish here. Of course, going back home will open another can of worms that Castiel isn’t remotely in the state of mind to deal with. The last time he saw Anna was at their mother’s funeral, and the encounter hadn’t gone well, for either of them. Even if he goes to town without visiting her, he has no desire to be in that frame of reference. It will distract him too much—distract him from hunting, which he neither wants nor needs.

There’s no way he’s going down that train of thought again. He sits down with his computer once more, coffee by his side.

It takes another few minutes to make himself get back to work.

There haven’t, to the best of his research ability, been any miracles in Peoria. Well, not in the supernatural sense of the world. There are plenty of miracles; children are born, long lost friends are reunited, sick people manage to get better. Lots of ordinary, everyday miracles. Any one of them could have been helped along by a bit of well-intended spell work, but there’s no way of knowing that for sure. Not without individually speaking to every patient to have checked out of a local hospital lately, and god knows Castiel doesn’t have time for that. If Dean thinks his brother is in town, Castiel can’t tell why.

It’s ten thirty when he thinks to check the time again. Is that all?

Normally, he wouldn’t be worried about Dean. He’s not a child and he fights better than most hunters Castiel has met—and he’s met a lot.

Unease is nagging at the back of his mind nonetheless. Dean didn’t take the car. Even if he did, he doesn’t know where he went, and Dean is too proud to call for help if he needs it.

He sends him a text. _Everything good?_

At eleven, he sends another one. _Don’t say two hours if you mean six_.

If he’s concerned, he has a right to be. This isn’t some borderline-stalker getting angry that Dean is ignoring him. Dean has gone out alone in the middle of the night and been missing over four hours longer than he’d said. He’d say that constitutes concern.

“Fuck,” he says, standing up, and sends another text.

_Going to look for you._

Dean’s GPS isn’t turned on. His first course of action is a call to his service provider to remedy that fact, but it doesn’t help. Wherever Dean is, his signal is blocked or out of range, which means he hasn’t been getting Castiel’s messages either. He shoves his gun inside his jacket before heading out to the Impala, opening the front door. If he can’t find a trail, he’ll have to go by ear. Dean left on foot, and he left his computer and the Impala behind, which means he intended to come back. How far can he have gone?

There is a bar not twenty minutes from the motel, and Castiel passes it on his way to Ava Wilson’s apartment block. Trying his luck, he goes inside.

“Hello,” he says as soon as the barkeeper appears to serve him, not bothering to introduce himself as FBI. None of the surrounding heads turn his way. “I’m looking for a man,” he continues, and he could have been more civil but he doesn’t care. “About six foot, brown hair, green eyes, leather jacket. He might have been a little out of it.”

“Who wants to know?” The barkeeper narrows his eyes at him.

Castiel blinks slowly. It’s not too late to pull out his badge. He still doesn’t. The chances that Dean actually came here are next to nothing. Dean is as fond of a drink as the next man, but he doesn’t waste time when there’s work to be done. What Castiel pulls out instead is Dean’s, fake I.D. card, taken from the glove box. “He looked something like this.”

Still eyeing Castiel with an expression of displeasure, the man acquiesces, reaching forward to take the card and look at it properly.

He hands it back. “Haven’t seen him here.”

Of course he hasn’t. Rubbing his forehead, Castiel takes the card back. “Thanks.”

He’s stuffing a one-dollar note into the tipping jar when another voice speaks up from somewhere down the bar. “May I see the picture?”

He looks up.

The speaker is a balding man with thin, white hair, somewhere in his late fifties and unusually tall, with an immaculate suit and tie. Probably a businessman. He’s sitting two seats down the bar, looking at Castiel with an unusual level of interest, almost weaselly in manner.

Castiel immediately doesn’t like him.

Apprehensive, he hands him the photo. “He might have come this way a few hours ago,” he says uncomfortably, eyes narrowing to a squint. It doesn’t look like this man has been here that long, judging by his apparent state of soberness.

The man takes the I.D. card from Castiel’s hand and stares at it for more than a moment, head tilted slightly to one side without speaking.

Castiel clears his throat. “Do you recognise him?” he asks, impatient.

The jerk of the man’s head suggests that he’d forgotten Castiel was there. “Who, me? I’m sorry, I must have been mistaken. I thought it might have been somebody else.”

The hair on Castiel’s neck prickles with unease as the stranger hands Dean’s I.D. card back. “Don’t worry about it,” he says cautiously, placing the card in his inner pocket as though it’s something that needs to be protected.

The man returns to his drink, a deep-set frown upon his face, and Castiel shoots him one last look before departing, glad to be free of the noise and the suffocating smell of booze.

Dean could be anywhere in the city. Knowing him, he could well be anywhere in America by this point. Even so, the only places he knows for sure that they plan on visiting while they’re here are the apartment where Ava lived with Brady, and the house where they know her to be currently residing.

It’s to the apartment that he travels first. The place has been empty for the last five months; Ava moved out and put it on the market when Brady was killed. Since then, it has yet to sell, which should make it easy to get into.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting to find there, of course. Police have combed the apartment dozens of the times for evidence, and since then the realtors have done their work. All he’s going to find is display furniture and modern window fittings.

When he gets there, all he finds is display furniture and modern window fittings. He does, however, get a better perspective of the place’s layout; he’s read the police report, but seeing it in person allows him to develop a visual. The window wasn’t forced, and the door was still locked from the inside. If Castiel had heard of this five months ago when it was still fresh, he would undoubtedly have smelt a case.

Still, he hasn’t come here to solve a case. He’s come to look for Dean, and it’s obvious within minutes that Dean has not been here.

There was never much chance of Dean being here, but the realisation that he’s running out of options makes his pulse quicken. He checks his phone. It’s eleven-thirty, and Dean has not called.

 _Fuck_.

Dean isn’t looking for Ava. He’s not investigating a case, and he’s not going to find him here or anywhere near Ava’s house. He left for a personal reason, and Castiel doesn’t know Dean well enough to fathom what that reason might be, or where he’s going to find him.

He leaves the apartment as he found it, heading back downstairs to the car and slamming the door as he gets in.

He can try hacking the local police surveillance cameras and looking that way, but to do it without a facial recognition program will take time he doesn’t have, even assuming his hacking skills are up to the task, which they aren’t—that was always Dean’s area of expertise. He can file a missing person’s report, but the last thing Dean needs to have is the police involved in his life.

Of course, Castiel isn’t concerned for Dean’s convenience. He’s concerned for his safety.

“Damn it,” he says, taking out his phone again.

There’s a knock on his window.

Castiel’s head turns towards the sound and freezes.

“Excuse me? Uh…hi.”

He’s only seen licence photos of Ava Wilson, and her voice is muffled by the car door, but after seeing her face as much as he has over the last day, it barely takes a second to recognise her.

She looks out of place on the footpath, a jacket and layers of clothes pulled tightly around her body in the frigid night air. Her long brown hair whips around her face, and her eyes dart nervously over the dimly lit street.

What is Ava Wilson doing outside her old apartment block at half-past eleven at night?

Feeling the handle of his gun pressing against his chest from the inside of his jacket, he lowers the window. Slightly. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

Ava shifts her weight skittishly. “I—I don’t—this is—” she stammers, and Castiel is thrown off-guard. “This is…really crazy…I—”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m…I’m fine. Look, I wasn’t sure you were going to be here, but you are, so—so that’s great. I have to…to tell you something.”

Of all the things Castiel had expected to come out of Ava’s mouth, this was probably the last on his list. If she is a witch, she is also a very good liar.

Which, in his experience, is usually the case. He considers his options. If she’s a witch, she knows that he knows it and that’s why she’s here. He decides to humour her. “What are you doing here?” he asks, sounding bewildered.

“To talk to you!” she insists, like it’s obvious, then looks up and down the footpath again as if she’s afraid somebody is watching them. “And I own an apartment in his building, and—it really doesn’t matter. I think…you’re looking for someone?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. Maybe he shouldn’t be acting oblivious after all. “Who are you?”

“Ava, my—my name’s Ava.”

“Ava, my name is Castiel.”

“What?”

“Castiel,” he repeats, and it’s the fact that he has to repeat himself that makes him realise that he’s used his real name at all. Already fucked up once. “You said you came here to talk to me?”

“Yeah, and it’s the middle of the night in February, so…so remember that.”

“How did you know I was here?”

Ava takes a deep breath, shaking her head vigorously. “It doesn’t—it doesn’t matter, okay? Listen, Castiel, I don’t know where your friend is, but…I need to find him. It’s important.”

“Why is it important?”

“I don’t know!” Ava heaves a breath, bordering somewhere between fear and irritability—a surprisingly thin line. “I don’t know. I should start from the beginning, shouldn’t I?”

Castiel blinks, then frowns, eyebrows pulling together. “I think that would be wise.”

“Look, I know how…how all this sounds, but I’m not insane, and I’m not on drugs. Okay? I’m normal.”

Cautiously, Castiel opens the door of the Impala, getting out. She steps backwards quickly to give him room. They’re on equal footing now, and Castiel makes sure to give her space. She is agitated enough as it is. “It’s okay, Ava, I believe you.”

“Good.” Ava lets out a breath with a shudder, chill turning the air into a cloud. She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet. “About—about a year ago, I started having these—headaches, and I—I went to a doctor about it and tried a whole bunch of different painkillers but they didn’t go away. They sort of kept getting worse, and I started having nightmares, I think. And I—the nightmares, they didn’t make a lot of sense, at first, I mean, I never remembered them when I woke up. But then, six months ago, I had this…okay, there was this guy, and he told me I needed to…to find somebody. I don’t know. He—the guy—he showed me what the man looked like, and I’d never seen him before in my life, at least, I didn’t remember him. Anyway, I really didn’t think much of it, but then…” She sucks in a frightened breath. “Look, he kept coming back to me in my dreams, telling me to look for this guy, but I mean, I didn’t know who he was! How am I meant to look for somebody I’ve never met? I didn’t know where to start, so I ignored the dreams; I was really busy, planning my wedding…”

“What happened?” Castiel’s voice is gentle now. He almost extends a hand of reassurance. The look he gets from Ava is wide-eyed and terrified, and Castiel feels a pang of sympathy. She is scared.

“My fiancé died,” she chokes out, and the sentence hits Castiel like a fist when he realises she’s crying. “I don’t know how, they—the police never found out how. He got killed in our apartment but all the doors were locked from the inside and there was no _weapon_. He just died, like it was a ghost or something.” The sentence ends with Ava wiping her nose on her sleeve, tears staining her face, which is red and puffy from the cold. “And then I had another dream.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Castiel remembers that he’s not good at comforting. He’s not good at reassuring. The only thing he can do seamlessly is deliver facts, and as a result, he’s stuck, not sure what he can say without pointlessly disrupting her story. “I’m sorry,” is what he comes out with in the end, softly.

“He—the guy in my dreams—he said Brady was distracting me, that I—that he was getting in my way. Can you believe I’d dream that?” she asks, staring at Castiel. “Dreams are meant to be your unconscious mind telling you something, right? But I loved Brady, I’d never…I’d never think that…”

Dean is wrong. Dean is so, so wrong. Ava isn’t a witch; she’s a victim. A victim of what, Castiel doesn’t quite know yet. “What else can you tell me about your dreams?” he asks urgently. “Is it always the same man who talks to you?”

Ava frowns. “Yeah, I guess so. Sometimes he doesn’t talk to me, he just…shows me stuff. Like you!” she adds suddenly. “And your friend.”

Is that what she’s doing here? A chill clutches his chest. “Wait, this person he wants you to find, you think it’s Dean?”

“Who?” Ava’s voice falters. “Your friend? No, not him. I just—I had a dream, just now, at home. You were in it, at this bar, and you had a photo I.D. for this guy you were looking for. He wasn’t the same guy _I’m_ meant to be looking for but the—the yellow-eyed man, he told me to help you find your friend because we’re…I think we’re all looking for the same guy. Then I saw you getting in the car here, and I recognised my building, so I knew you’d be here.”

She has to catch her breath when she finishes talking; it gives Castiel a moment for the reality of what Ava has just told him to properly hit home. It’s the demon. Ava is looking for the _demon_. More than that, she’s being _forced_ to look for it. But _why_? Ava is just a girl. Why would anyone be interested in her?

And why send her to help Castiel find Dean? How was she able to see him at the bar?

Too many questions. He poses one to Ava.

“What do you mean, the yellow-eyed man?”

Ava’s hand freezes in the middle of wiping a tear from her cheek. “What?” she asks, looking at him hopelessly. “The man! The man I keep seeing in my dreams, the one who killed Brady! I never remember what he looks like, but he always has these…yellow eyes, and it’s always the same guy. He comes and tells me to do stuff, and if I don’t do it, he hurts the people around me. I’ve had to all but fall off the reservation just to keep my family safe!”

“Ava, I’m so sorry.”

The look he gets is one of disbelief. “I just want to go back to my life. I miss my mom and my dad—they asked me to come and live with them for a while after Brady died and I can’t even tell them why I said no.”

Cautiously, Castiel places a tentative hand on Ava’s shoulder. “Listen to me,” he says, holding her eyes steadily. “Everything is going to be fine, Ava, I promise. My friend and I can help you, we’ll figure out what’s going on and we’ll stop whoever’s doing this. You should go back to your house for the night, try to get some rest.” 

Ava cringes, shaking her head vigorously. “No! You don’t understand, I _have_ to go with you. If I have another premonition I can help you look, and if I don’t…”

Castiel looks pained. If Ava is telling him the truth, he needs to take her with him, at least until he can think of a plan.

He can work with that. Having here there will be helpful “Ava,” he says, eyes narrowing, “We need to find whoever is doing this to you before we can get to the bottom of it. Once we find Dean—”

The shake of Ava’s head is immediate. “We can’t go after him,” she says, and there’s no mistaking the fear in her voice. “You don’t understand what he’ll do to me. I need to find the other guy—that’s the only way to get him to—to leave me alone. We need to find the other guy.”

There can be no denying Castiel’s agreement at least in part; finding the demon the yellow-eyed man is looking for is going to be critical, but it’s not going to be enough. If there were ever any doubts that the person orchestrating the search for the demon is dangerous, there are none now. Whoever has been invading Ava’s dreams killed her fiancé and is willing to do more if it means keeping her in line. Right now, he is the only one whom Castiel has any interest in finding.

 _The yellow-eyed man_. Who could that be? Not a human, that much is obvious.

He has a feeling he knows, though. _Yellow-eyed demons are like generals_ , Dean had said. Castiel may not be familiar with the intricacies of the demonic hierarchy, but in any translation, a general means power. It means rank, and probably command over god-knows-how-many more, all of them powerful themselves and nearly impossible to kill.

And one has just sent Ava Wilson, whoever she may be to him, to help find Dean? His motivation could simply be strategy; they’re both looking for the same demon. Perhaps he thinks that they can get along, work together, and that sending Ava is his best chance at bartering sympathy. Sympathy for Ava, at least. All it’s making Castiel feel for her captor is righteous anger and disgust.

Whatever the motivation, he has to find Dean. Dean will have answers, maybe ideas as to why a demon would be so set upon tracking down _another_ demon. Dean is the brain of their whole operation.

Castiel is reluctant, though. If Dean is hiding, he will be leading the yellow-eyed demon straight to him. His eyes fall on Ava again, thoughtful. Is it seeing things through her? Or watching from somewhere else?

He’s in a difficult situation.

Ava wasn’t around when he was at the bar, and she still knows about it. It doesn’t take genius intellect to know that he’s being spied on, probably with magic, which makes finding a way to stay hidden and fight back his top priority. Salt and holy water work against demons, he knows. The trapping sigil works too, and reciting an exorcism, but he doesn’t have the spellbook here and he can’t do those things from memory. There might be more, too, something that he’s missed.

So the first thing he has to do is go back to the motel and get it. He is a fool for not bringing it along when he left to look for Dean, but it’s too late to dwell on that.

If the demon spying on them realises that Castiel is looking for information, there’s no guarantee on what he will do. His first instinct is to take Ava somewhere safe and leave her there, but that’s going to get people killed.

He just won’t tell her what they’re really doing. That’s all he _can_ do, given the circumstance. “One thing at a time,” he says at last, snapping himself back into reality and looking at Ava, steely. “What do you know about Dean from your dream?”

Ava starts, like she hadn’t genuinely expected him to accept her offer. “I don’t know, just…what he looks like, I guess, from your picture. Nothing to tell me where he was.”

“And this person you say we’re both looking for,” he urges. “What do you know about him?”

“I don’t know anything!” Ava insists. “Maybe you and your friend do, but I don’t even know his name, I don’t _know_ how we’re supposed to be looking for _him_.”

“Calm down.” Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose. “Our first step is to find Dean. Neither of us have any knowledge of his whereabouts or any idea where to start looking. I think it would be best if we went back to the place we’re staying,” he tries. It already knows where their motel is; Ava saw the bar. What is the demon itself capable of? “There might be one of his belongings with a clue as to wear he might have gone.”

“You’re making it sound like some kind of whodunit.”

“It’s often easiest to think of it as one.” Castiel looks along the street one final time. He’s still not satisfied; they’re being watched, he’s certain, although nobody is visible on the freezing street with the exception of the occasional car that passes with little interest. “On the way, I need you to tell me everything you can think of about the yellow-eyed man,” he says, opening the back seat for her. “Everything he’s said to you, or done…”

“Why?” Ava shuffles closer to the Impala but doesn’t get in. “I’m not supposed to talk about him. Hell, I’m amazed I’ve managed to talk about him this much with you, but he’s told me to, I guess…”

“What does he do when you don’t do what he wants?”

She stiffens, looking sideways and avoiding eye contact. “Mostly he only asks the one thing,” she says at last, not answering the question. “‘Find this guy, find this guy!’, and I don’t have any idea what that means, so I’ve just been trying to use the internet. I even paid a sketch artist to draw him for me.”

“You have a picture of him?”

“It’s not the best, but… _yeah_ , I guess I could describe him pretty well after seeing his face in my head every night for six months. I didn’t bring it here.” She shrugs, the motion stiff with tension. “Sometimes, though…” She trails off, fidgeting restlessly and looking anywhere but at him. “He…he makes me do…more…”

“Like what?”

Ava touches her forehead, eyes screwed up in pain. “It’s…”

Castiel’s expression changes immediately. “Ava?”

“I’m fine,” she mutters. Both her hands are massaging her temples in discomfort.

Castiel’s voice drops considerably when he next speaks. “What have you been doing?” he asks, lowering his head to make her eye-level.

“ _No_ ,” she cries sharply, making Castiel jerk as Ava sways on her feet until she is forced to slump against the side of the Impala. “Oh, god, I’m doing everything you wanted!”

The gun is already in Castiel’s hand, but there is nothing here to shoot. Whatever is happening to Ava is happening inside her own head. She is clutching it in pain now, nails digging into the soft flesh of her forehead as she struggles to keep herself upright. “How do I stop it?” he demands, not sure if it’s Ava he’s asking or whoever is manipulating her.

“Shut up!” she hisses. “Just get in the car. Drive. We need to find your friend.”

* * *

 

Castiel doesn’t ask Ava about the yellow-eyed demon again.

His meeting with her has confused him far more than it has given him answers but it doesn’t take a scientist to realise that they’re in danger. Whoever is behind this has the upper hand, and Castiel’s best chance is to play along, bide his time, until he can flip the tables with whatever resources he can find.

Of course, that will be much easier when he knows more. The fact that this whole situation seems to be about finding a single demon is proof enough that it’s possible to become undetectable to demonic tracking, but he’ll be damned if he knows how to do it. If the book has answers, they’re written somewhere in the Enochian passages.

Ava doesn’t talk for most of the trip. She sits in the back seat with her head in her hands, not caring where they’re going. More than once, Castiel’s eyes stray to her face in the rear-view mirror.

Through some method or another, she has been receiving orders in her dreams as well as psychic premonitions and astral projections. If she doesn’t follow those orders she is punished.

The simple fact that she couldn’t tell him what those orders were is enough to know that they aren’t good. Castiel wonders if Ava has been made to kill people, maybe for spells like the one being used in Lawrence.

He’s taking a huge risk in bringing her with him, but given all the ways in which leaving her behind could go wrong, it’s his only option.

She falls asleep when they’re halfway there, head lolling against the window of the car, and Castiel hopes for her sake that she doesn’t dream.

His phone rings.

Castiel is quick to pull it out before it can wake his passenger, although the number on his screen is one he doesn’t know. Breathing shallowly, he raises it to his ear. “Hello?” he asks, cautious.

“Cas?”

He lets out a relieved breath, checking to make sure that Ava is still asleep and wondering if that makes a difference. “Dean, where are you?”

“You’re not at the motel,” he says urgently, and Castiel realises that he’s panting. “What happened?”

“Did you get my messages?”

“Lost my phone.” The sentence finishes with a soft grunt, and Castiel strains to hear more.

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Dean snaps. “I just need you here. How soon can you be back?”

Castiel doesn’t answer for a moment. “I’m not alone,” he says, checking Ava in the mirror one more time.

“Who are you with?”

“Ava Wilson.”

Dean curses. “What are you doing with Ava Wilson?”

“She found me. Dean, she’s not a witch.”

“What is she?”

“She’s just a girl,” Castiel says, “but there’s something bigger here. Bigger than we realised. She was sent to help me look for you.”

Dean’s breathing stops. “Sent? By who?”

“A man.” He pauses. “A man with yellow eyes. She’s been seeing him, in dreams; he’s been controlling her. I’ll explain everything when we’re alone.”

“Cas, get out of there. Right now. Just leave her and go.”

“I can’t, Dean. She’s in danger. If she doesn’t do as she’s told the demon gets violent.”

“You’re in worse danger than she is.” Castiel hears a clattering sound in the background of Dean’s line. “ _Dammit_ , Cas, you’re an idiot.”

“The demon already knew we were here.”

“If it didn’t, it does now. Demons aren’t omnipotent, Cas! They can’t just _see_ stuff. It’s using this girl as a fucking spy.”

“Dean—”

“Look, find some consecrated ground—a church will do, or another place of worship. Leave her there with some water and make her promise to stay. Put salt lines across all the doors and windows and she’ll be safe until we can come get her, once we know more.”

Castiel doesn’t answer for a moment. “You and I need to meet somewhere else,” he says at last, glancing back at Ava. She shows no sign of having woken. “In case it already knows where we’re staying.”

There’s a dry laugh from Dean’s end. “Yeah, that’s—” His voice falters. “That’s not gonna happen. I’m not going anywhere right now. Get that girl some place safe and then haul your ass back here; I’ll worry about keeping it safe.”

The tone in Dean’s voice is unnerving, and Castiel pushes the accelerator just a little bit harder. “Where were you, Dean? You’ve been gone for hours.”

“Is that all?” Dean laughs again, but it sounds painful, forced. “I’ll explain later. See you, Cas.”

Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but Dean is already gone.

“Damn you,” he says, tossing his phone onto the passenger seat. Behind him, Ava shifts uneasily, her face cringing in its sleep.

If memory serves, he passed a church on the way to Ava’s apartment block. It was on the main road; he can find it again, so long as he hasn’t already passed it. Convincing Ava to stay is going to be his biggest problem.

When they get there to find it empty as hoped, convincing Ava to stay does turn out to be his biggest problem.

“You want me to _wait_?” She is gaping at him. “In a church? All night?”

“You’ll be safe from demons here,” Castiel explains, already striding towards the entrance. It’s a small building, standing on a corner with an even smaller parking lot to its side. Ava hastily follows him, looking around as if the place is cursed. The door is locked. Castiel bends to open it, withdrawing his lock pick from one of his trench coat’s many pockets. “The ground is sacred; it repels creatures of evil. We’ll put down salt as an added defensive layer, and there’s holy water inside; it hurts for demons to touch it.”

“I’m sorry, did you say _demons_?” Ava stares at him, mouth slightly open, and Castiel heaves an impatient sigh, albeit an unfair one. 

“Yes, Ava. That’s what the man you’ve been seeing is—and the man you’re being made to search for. It’s hardly the strangest part of this whole affair.” It feels strange to be talking about them in such a way, like there is no doubt in his mind that what Dean has told him is the gospel truth. There is, of course; Castiel has never even seen a demon and he doesn’t just _accept_ things before he sees them, but there is no place for his doubts here. “And this building…it’s the safest place you can stay for the time being.” He pauses. “Not the most comfortable, I’ll admit.”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to tell me that and then _leave_ me here? What—what am I meant to eat, or—or where should I sleep? What if somebody finds me?”

Castiel frowns, momentarily distracted as he presses his ear up to the lock while he works. “Trust me, Ava,” he says when he finally looks at her, his voice sombre. “It’s just for one night, and I will come back for you, understand?” He stands up once the lock is finally picked, but he doesn’t open the door right away, paying his full attention to Ava. “I’ll leave you my number, and if anything bad happens, you call me. But I need you to stay here. I’ll come and get you myself once I know more about what we’re dealing with and how to keep you safe.”

“I need to come with you!” Ava protests, not moving to enter the church. “You—you don’t understand, this guy—”

“—Can’t hurt you if he can’t get to you.” Castiel pushes on the door, and it creaks as it opens. Ava looks inside, shifting her weight anxiously.

Castiel doesn’t give her a chance to protest. He returns to the car, retrieving the oversized bag of rock salt he keeps in the back seat. It’s only half full; they used some of it in their last case when they were protecting Riley’s house. God willing, though, there will be enough to secure the church, or at least part of it. Ava is still standing in the doorway when he comes back, but she is leaning heavily against the doorframe, eyes screwed shut.

Castiel assesses her thoughtfully. He’s in a hurry to get back to Dean, but he’s not exactly in a hurry to leave Ava. There’s something fundamentally wrong with the idea of abandoning her like this. “How are you feeling?”

“The same as I’ve been for the last six months,” she mutters, opening her eyes. “Crap. Salt keeps the demons out?” she asks, changing the subject and looking at the bag.

Castiel opens the top of the sack. “So I’m told.”

She sighs, rubbing her temples. “I’ll stay here. Not like I’d be much help anyway.”

“I don’t know about that, but I appreciate this. It’s for your own protection.”

“I’ll call you if I find out anything new…guess for now I’ll try and sleep, see if I can’t cook up some kind of vision about him. I don’t know how this works.”

“Remember the holy water,” he reminds her. “And the salt—if you find somewhere to sleep, make a ring around it as well as covering the doors and windows. If anyone finds you here in the morning, just…lie. Tell them you needed to pray and ask for forgiveness.”

Smiling softly, Ava pats his arm as she picks up the bag, pouring a line of it in between them just behind the doorframe. “Like that’d be a lie?” She sets the bag down at her feet, looking at Castiel thoughtfully. “Alright, big guy; I got this. You go do whatever you’ve got to.”

Ava gives him her number, entering it into his cell phone while he does the same for her. When they hand each other their own devices and she hitches up the sack of rock salt once more, carrying it between the rows of pews towards the church’s second door, Castiel prays to whatever god there is that Dean knows what he’s doing.

* * *

 

Castiel doesn’t think of himself as a good person, no matter how hard he tries to be one. He helps people and he recycles, but he is a human being and he is flawed, and he is ten miles above the speed limit for the entire drive back to the motel.

The lights are switched when he gets there, pulling the Impala to a halt in front of the room. He can also see a line of salt on the windowsill on his way towards the door to the room.

He doesn’t bother knocking. “Dean?” he barks, opening the door.

“You really took your sweet time, Cas.”

Dean has clearly been busy; the walls on all sides of the room are painted with sigils, enough to make Castiel cringe at the idea of the motel bill. Most of them are Enochian, forming words that Castiel doesn’t recognise, with a few completely unfamiliar symbols scattered here and there. It seems excessive, but then, Castiel isn’t an expert; if Dean is concerned, there is a reason for it.

The man himself is perched on the bed closest to the door, cross-legged with his shirt missing and his face screwed up in pain. At first, Castiel can’t see where Dean is injured; he looks normal, doesn’t even appear to be sweating. It’s when Dean opens his eyes, staring at him wordlessly for several seconds before leaning forward and getting to his feet that Castiel sees his hand covering his torso just below his ribs, on the left.

“Shit.”

His phone clatters to the floor in his haste to run forwards, and Dean shakes his head with a pained smile as Castiel reaches him. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

“Let me see.”

Dean sits down on the side of the bed again and slowly takes his hand away from his side. Castiel’s eyes flit up quickly to meet Dean’s before stooping to look at the wound properly.

It isn’t bleeding. There isn’t even any blood around the site. The wound itself is at least hours old, and Dean must have cleaned it himself. The injury was inflicted by a medium-length knife, from what he can judge from the size and shape of the deep gash.

“Why aren’t you at a hospital?” he mutters, rushing back to his own bed to retrieve the first-aid kit from his duffle. “How long has it been like this?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says, looking down at himself with a frown, like it doesn’t matter. “Hours? It’s not serious, and I’ve had more important things to worry about.”

“It’s going to get infected,” Castiel says, irate.

“No, it’s not.” Despite this, Dean makes no move to stop him as he comes back over with a small zip-up bag and a bottle of antiseptic.

“I suppose you’re an expert,” Castiel says, unzipping the bag and kneeling in front of Dean.

“I am.”

Castiel raises his head to look at him, and neither looks away for several seconds.

“I’m going to be fine, Cas,” Dean tells him. “But this wound will weaken me.”

“You don’t say.”

Dean is silent, watching as Castiel sanitises his hands and then unscrews the lid of the antiseptic, tipping a small amount onto a clean cloth from the kit.

“Are you going to tell me how this happened?” he asks, not looking at Dean as he tentatively dabs the cloth to the edges of the wound. Dean doesn’t even flinch.

“Are you going to make me?”

“If I have to.” Castiel dabs at Dean’s wound again. He doesn’t understand why it isn’t still bleeding—he can’t even understand how Dean was able to make it back here and call him in this condition. “You can start by telling me where you were.”

“Well, I’m…pretty sure there are demons in Peoria.”

Castiel snorts. “I’m fairly certain you’re right.” The knife went deep, but the fact that Dean is still walking and talking means it can’t be as bad as it looks; he’ll have to take Dean to a hospital, but for now, he needs to cover it up. He reaches back into the bag, looking for a pressure bandage. “I did as you said; left Ava in the church. I just hope you’re right about her being safe there.”

“I lied so you’d be more convincing.” Dean’s tone is matter-of-fact, but his face is mournful when Castiel raises his head to look at him sharply. “Consecrated ground isn’t enough to protect a person from higher-order demons. It won’t stop a yellow-eyed demon, but it’ll weaken him, and so long as there’s a salt ring he won’t be able to get in, and the holy water…”

“ _Fuck_.” Castiel was afraid of that, and it doesn’t make it easier hearing it from Dean’s mouth. “You’re telling me I just left her there unprotected? She trusted me.”

“She’s safer there than she’ll be with us,” Dean snaps. “We’ve got to prioritise; do you think I like it any more than you do?” He cringes slightly when he finishes talking, a hand going tentatively to the knife wound. “Are you satisfied with that?”

Scowling, Castiel hands him the end of the bandage. “Hold this here, move as little as possible,” he mutters, carefully winding the brown cloth around Dean’s torso. It’s difficult, given that Dean is still sitting on the bed; he has to stand between his legs, reaching over his head to pass the roll behind him to his other hand. Dean stares stubbornly ahead, and Castiel can feel his nose brushing his chest.

He gets to the end of the roll, clips his edge of the bandage into place and steps away. “I don’t know why you didn’t do that sooner.”

Dean assesses the work with a frown before picking up his t-shirt from where it was discarded on the bed beside him and pulling it on. There’s a hole in it that corresponds with Dean’s injury, crusted in blood, and Castiel almost offers to fetch him a different shirt. “I’ve been warding this place against demons,” he mutters. “Unless they already know we’re here, they shouldn’t be able to locate us using any kind of supernatural tracking methods, and if they do they won’t be able to get in.”

“I thought you said demons weren’t omnipotent.” He gathers up the contents of the first-aid kit, carrying it back to the foot of the other bed, where he left his own bag. They will need to get more disinfectant and another bandage, but right now, he’s just grateful that Dean is still alive.

Silver catches his eye.

“They’re not.” Dean gets to his feet experimentally, but sits down again after receiving a glare from Castiel. “But they’re tricky sons of bitches; if they want to find you they’ll tear down the heavens to do it. I mean, just look at what ours is doing.”

Castiel is listening, but he’s distracted now, walking back to the other side of Dean’s bed and crouching to pick up the short, silver sword left carelessly on the motel carpet. A sticky red smear still covers the blade itself, and he stares at it for a long time before raising his head to see Dean watching him.

“Isn’t this the knife you found in Lawrence?” he asks, testing the weight in both hands.

“Yeah, I took it with me,” Dean says, defensive. “So?”

“I didn’t realise you still had it,” he says, trying to recall the last time he saw Dean use it. He certainly doesn’t remember Dean having it with him when he left. Turning back to Dean, his eyes fall on the man’s bandage before moving back to the sword in his hand. “Is this the weapon that stabbed you?” he asks, voice suddenly harsh, and Dean’s eyes narrow.

“I got in a knife fight, in case you couldn’t tell. Yes, it’s the weapon that stabbed me. Not the first time a guy’s weapon’s been used against him.” He reaches forward, yanking the blade roughly from Castiel’s hand. It slices his palm lightly on its way out, but Castiel doesn’t flinch, hand balling into a fist. Dean looks apologetic. “I dropped it when I got back,” he mutters. “And then it was difficult bending over because of, you know—” He glances at his bandage. “—this, so thanks for picking it up.”

“You’ll have to tell me where you went eventually,” Castiel says tersely. Dean turns his head stubbornly.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” He peers up at him. “I have a feeling whatever you learned from Ava’s going to be more important; you talk first.”

 _More important than who stabbed you?_ Castiel narrows his eyes, but he fills him in anyway; everything that happened since Dean left the motel room, although he omits his brief stint of research on Sam. He doesn’t even know how long ago that was now; it’s the early hours of the morning, he knows that, but he’s lost track of the time and he doesn’t care enough to check.

For the most part, Dean lets him talk uninterrupted. His eyes barely move from Castiel’s face except to occasionally glance back at the window, watchful. An ever-increasing look of dread settles upon his features, and his lips form a thin line as Castiel gets to meeting Ava and what she told him outside her apartment block.

“She knew you would be there,” he says, folding his arms stiffly. “And she saw you at the bar?”

Castiel nods. “Either she’s a psychic or the demon showed it to her.”

“Let’s hope it’s the first.” Dean frowns. “That might explain why he would be interested in her; psychics are incredibly powerful. Some of them can do things a demon couldn’t even dream of. With enough training and a push in the right direction they could be…useful. Not to mention dangerous; exactly what a demon needs to raise a little hell and cater to a whim of sadism.”

“Except Ava never had dreams before she started seeing the demon,” Castiel points out.

“He might have triggered it—or done something to enhance what was already there, or…god knows. I’m not even sure what makes a psychic a psychic in the first place.”

Castiel can tell right off the bat that Dean is concerned. There’s something else nagging him that he hasn’t mentioned. It triggers a spark of annoyance; he’s getting used to Dean withholding information, but it’s pretty obvious that this is important.

“Alright,” he says, looking at Dean seriously. “That’s what I’ve been doing. Who stabbed you?”

“A demon.”

“A _demon_?”

“Is there an echo in here? Why is that so surprising?” Dean asks, irritant. “Yes, a demon. I had a feeling one was in town so I went looking for it, we got in a fight and it used my blade on me. Actually, there was more than one. I sent the bastards back to hell and found my way back here.”

“ _How_?” Castiel turns away from him, running a hand over his face, and god, it’s catching up to him just how tired he really is.

How did Dean know where to look? How did he get back here without a car in the state he was in? There are too many questions; far too many to let them all spill out immediately. He focuses on one, turning around slowly. Dean hasn’t moved from where he was sitting, looking up at him with sharp green eyes.

“And you didn’t think you’d mention this?” Castiel demands. “I could have gone with you—judging by your current state the help wouldn’t have gone astray.”

“Dammit, Cas, I don’t need you to fight my battles for me!” Dean shoots back. “I got out just fine.”

“But where did you go? What happened? How did you know to go there?” Castiel rattles off the questions as if they are accusations, and he immediately regrets yelling at him, but now that the cap is off the bottle he isn’t prepared to stop. “Dean, I’m your friend. I’m _with_ you on this.” He takes a step closer, eyes narrowed to a squint. “I’m with you about your demons, and your witches, and whatever history you have with your family. I’m sticking my neck out; no other hunter in their right mind will be willing to help me after associating with you. I’m putting myself out there because I believe that what we’re doing is going to save lives.” He’s standing over Dean now, but Dean doesn’t even flinch; he holds his ground, completely unfazed by the tone in Castiel’s voice. “In my line of work, you get used to your life being in danger. I’m prepared to face whatever I have to, but Dean, I _need_ you to be frank with me on this.”

After speaking in what could be taken as a growl, he’s surprised by how much his voice falters when he comes to his final words. All of six weeks have passed between now and when he met Dean, and he genuinely cares, not just about this hunt but about Dean too. Goddamn, that should be obvious.

Dean isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s looking at his hands, and Castiel wishes he could see his face. “You don’t understand, Cas,” he says.

Castiel lowers his head so they’re closer to eye-level, and his height makes the stoop uncomfortable but it’s something that he barely notices. “Help me understand.”

“In the report for Brady’s murder, there were traces of sulphur on the windowsill and the bed where he was sleeping,” Dean says slowly. “That’s how I knew there were demons in town.”

“Sulphur?”

“It’s to do with demons. They leave it behind sometimes when they touch stuff. Think of it as like…demonic EMF. Anyway, I went looking for more case files in the police database to see if there were any more crimes where sulphur was involved. Looking at crime scenes was a dud but there was one girl who went missing and then showed up two months later in a shopping mall with a stab wound and no memory of what happened to her. They found traces of sulphur in her clothes and hair when they took her to the hospital. I figured she’d been possessed so I looked through some local surveillance footage taken during the months she was missing and I saw her; there was a house she’d been going to and from. I went to check it out and I ran into some demons.”

There is absolutely no way Dean could have done that amount of research in one night, which means that Dean has known about this since before they came to Peoria. Maybe this is the reason he wanted to come at all and Ava has been an excuse all along.

“Son of a bitch,” Castiel says, turning around. He stares at the wall opposite for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and turns to face Dean again. “This house, where is it?”

“There’s nothing there anymore. I exorcised them all.”

“You could have died. Where is the house?”

Dean sighs. “I can write down the address, but…about a twenty minute drive.”

“You’re telling me you walked?”

Dean is silent for a moment. “I got a cab.”

“You got a cab?” Castiel asks, his tone full of accusation. “With a knife in your stomach?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“You’re lying.”

For the first time all evening, Dean looks truly remorseful. “I’m sorry.”

Castiel heaves an exhausted sigh. “Of course you’re sorry.” It doesn’t change a thing.

“I mean it, Cas.” Dean wrings his hands. “I wish I could tell you more, but I just… _can’t_. You’ve gotta trust me.”

“I do trust you.” Castiel sounds defeated. “I only wish you extended that same courtesy to me.”

He recognises the look in Dean’s eyes; he’s all guilt and self-depreciation and Castiel has had his fair share of that in his life. The fact that he’s the one who put that look there isn’t something he enjoys. He hates it, even, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Look.” Castiel sits down on the bed next to Dean, and both of them stare ahead, thoughts on different planes. “I know you’re not one of the bad guys, Dean. I know you’re sorry, I know you’re trying to do the right thing. I get it. If you have secrets…they’re your business. But this? Hunting? That’s an ‘us’ thing, not a ‘you’ thing. I don’t care if you think I’m not strong enough to fight a demon; you head out to fight and it becomes my problem.”

“I wasn’t expecting a fight.”

“No?”

“Alright, I was! I just wasn’t expecting to get stabbed. This thing…” Dean turns the blade over in his hand, looking at it with an almost sad expression. “It packs a punch.”

Castiel holds out a hand, and Dean places the blade in it wordlessly. He sets it down on the table next to Dean’s bed. It will have to be cleaned later.

“Next time,” Dean says. Castiel looks at him. “Next time something like this comes up, I’ll tell you.”

Maybe he’s lying—maybe he’s telling the truth but will back out when push comes to shove. Either way…it’s okay. For now, at least. “Thank you.”

Dean nods slowly, his hand balling into a fist on his knee.

Surprisingly, it’s Castiel who changes the subject. “What are we doing now?”

Dean straightens up immediately, clearing his throat. “We’ve got a yellow-eyed demon on the hunt for another as-yet unspecified demon using a force of both humans and demons to look for it. Reasonable to assume that this demon is pretty important to him, then.”

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the demons you met were in Peoria,” Castiel says. “They might be keeping tabs on Ava, and whatever the demon has her doing.”

“If that’s the case, we need to get her out of town pronto,” Dean agrees. “Right now they’re gone; it’s the only opportunity we’ll have. We should find her family, too, so the demons don’t have a bargaining tool. Set them up somewhere else with a full witness protection scheme. Once they’re out of the firing line we can focus on the bigger fish.”

“I’ll go and get her,” Castiel says. “We can take her to Bobby’s house; I can’t think of a place on Earth safer from anything. I don’t think he’d say no to putting her up for a few days.”

“It’s a nine-hour drive,” Dean says disapprovingly.

“You have a better option?”

“No, I just—forget it. You go fetch the girl and take her there, then. Ask about her parents and anyone else she thinks is important enough to be in danger and find out where they live so we can keep an eye on them too. You could be back by tomorrow night if you tried.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stay here. We’re not done in this town yet; I doubt there aren’t more demons running about. I’ll find out where they are.”

Strategically, Castiel knows that him going is the only real option; Bobby is more likely to listen to him than Dean, and Dean is in no condition to drive in his current state. Still, the idea of dedicating himself to an eighteen-hour trip in the middle of this case doesn’t exactly sit well.

He looks at Dean, unhappy. It’s not just the case; he doesn’t want to leave him either. He doesn’t trust Dean not to get himself into another fight while he’s gone.

“If you uncover anything else…” He lets the last remain unspoken, and Dean gets it.

“I’m not going after demons like this, Cas.” Dean quirks his eyebrows at him. “I’m not going anywhere. Learnt my lesson.”

Castiel doesn’t believe him for a second.

* * *

 

It’s only natural that when he reaches the church, for the second time that night, Ava is no longer there.

At first, part of him still holds out the hope that she has simply found a corner somewhere to sleep, one that might be more comfortable and out of immediate sight. That hope is dashed almost immediately when he reaches the centre of the giant cross that is the building; she’s not visible in either of the transepts, and when he calls out her name there is no response. A rushed but more thorough searched leaves him nothing but a sinking feeling of dread.

The bag of rock salt, barely emptied at all since he left it with Ava, is left beside the door she had been walking towards when he last saw her. Castiel stares at it in silent realisation. Ava is not here. _Ava is not here_.

The only salt line is the one covering the main door of the church. Everywhere else is left exposed.

_I left before she finished salting it. I should have stayed._

He’d been so desperate to get back to Dean, after their conversation in the car. Too desperate to wait until he knew for sure that the church was secure?

Anything could have happened. She could have decided to go home, preferring to take her chances there than stay. She could have tried to follow him. She could have been ordered to leave and had no choice but to go. All of the possibilities he had thought of, and it had barely occurred to him that Ava would choose to walk out of here herself.

That, or she was taken—all because he hadn’t bothered to wait.

He calls the number she left on his phone.

When it takes him to a local twenty-four hour pizza joint, he leaves.

* * *

 

“What do you mean, she’s gone?”

“What do you think?” Castiel snaps, behind the wheel of the Impala once more and pulling out into the street. He’s too sleep-deprived to care about talking calmly.

“I mean did something kidnap her?” Dean asks, impatient.

“I mean she left. The number she gave me was a fake; she must have been planning to leave the whole time.”

Dean groans. “Fuck.”

“She’s terrified of this thing. She must have weighed up her options and decided trusting us wasn’t worth the risk.”

“It doesn’t matter why.” Static fills Castiel’s ear as Dean huffs. “Alright, fine. Ava’s gone but the last thing we knew, she was meant to be getting us to find the demon.”

Castiel can’t imagine why anyone might think they’d be any help at all in that regard; they’ve done a terrible job so far. “So either she’s out looking for you or she’s got new orders.” He remembers the way Ava was acting just before they arrived. She had a headache. Was she dreaming about the yellow-eyed demon?

“Okay, best guess is that she’s headed for the—the house, where the other demons were holed up. It belongs to one of the people the demons were possessing but they were using it as a kind of base of operations.”

“Give me the address; I’ll go there.”

“Come get me and I’ll direct.”

“Dean, you’re in no condition to fight. I’ll go.”

“Who says we’re fighting? We’re looking for a missing girl. I’m coming.”

“You need to—”

“If you say rest then I swear to god I will kick your ass!” Dean shoots back. “You take me with you or I’m not telling you the where it is.”

Castiel presses his lips together to stop himself from arguing.

He takes the route back to the motel.

* * *

 

It’s obvious from the moment that Castiel reaches the parking lot that something is wrong. The door is closed and the windows drawn but light is spilling out onto the pavement from the gap underneath the door. It’s not the yellow hue of the motel’s incandescent light bulbs, either, but pure and brilliant white, obvious even from the sliver escaping the gap.

Castiel is out of the car in seconds. “Dean?”

The light has faded by the time he gets to the door, and he bangs on it once before fumbling with his card key just as he hears a thump from the other side. He can feel his pulse in his hands.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is muffled by the door, but it’s quiet and croaky in its own right. A lump rises in Castiel’s throat as he pushes the door open, bursting into the room.

Unlike earlier that night, when Castiel had returned to find Dean on the bed in pain, Dean is standing now, his blade clasped firmly in one hand and all but backed into the far wall, eyes wide with horror.

Somehow, Dean is not the first thing that captures his attention.

There’s a body on the floor.

In some corner of Castiel’s mind it occurs to him that he recognises the man sprawled on his back at Dean’s feet; tall and balding with a pressed black business suit. He met him earlier tonight, at the bar. He showed him Dean’s picture.

The rest of his mind is focused on the rest of the room. At first, he thinks there must have been a flash fire; the room is scorched. The floor, the table to the man’s left and part of the bed on his right are black and charred, as if he had fired a flamethrower to either side of him before he died.

Castiel can see a distinctive puncture wound underneath his chin, too. It’s barely bleeding.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean gasps, staring at him morbidly as Castiel rushes forwards, already pulling his gun from within his jacket and removing the safety, pointing it at the man on the floor although there is very little doubt in his mind that he is well and truly dead. “Cas, _fuck_.”

“What happened?” He raises his head to look at Dean, eyeing the blade in his hand. Dean turns to look at it as well, dropping it as though it has suddenly become red hot.

“We need to go,” Dean says hoarsely.

“ _What. Happened?_ ”

“I killed him.”

Castiel almost points the gun at him. “Do you know this man?”

“Yes, I know this man; his name is Zachariah and he’s an asshole. _Shit_ ,” he curses again, running to the first bed, the one that hasn’t been burnt, and picking up the spell book from where it has been left, shoving it carelessly into his duffle bag. “I’m leaving town. Right now. I’m so sorry I dragged you into all this, Cas.”

“Not good enough.” Dean is closer to him now, and Castiel reaches forward to grab his arm. He takes another look at the body on the floor, realisation jarring him as he registers the shape of the burn patterns. It wasn’t visible from his original vantage point at the door.

Those are _wings_.

Not wings in the physical sense of the word, but ashen imprints, as though somebody from above has blasted fire through a giant stencil. It’s a strange comparison to make, but it’s the first one that springs to Castiel’s sleep-deprived mind.

_Wings._

Burnt into the ground on either side of the man, Zachariah, like they were an invisible feature of his body that suddenly caught fire. Looking at Dean’s face, he wonders if that isn’t too inaccurate a comparison.

Dean is still staring at the hand on his arm, but when Castiel turns his eyes on him he raises his own to meet them. “What’s going on here, Dean?”

“He’s an angel, Cas. I killed an angel.”

Dean takes advantage of Castiel’s reaction time to pull his arm away, marching back to the end of the room where he dropped his blade. Castiel notices him take care not to step on the burns.

“Did you say an _angel_?” Castiel asks slowly.

There’s a scowl on Dean’s face as he straightens up with the blade in his hand. “Is it really that hard to believe?” he asks incredulously, gesturing towards the body and rushing back to his bed.

 _I just met this man. I spoke to him._ “What was he doing here—what did he want with you?”

Dean pulls on his leather jacket. “What does anybody want with me?” he mutters. “I’m in trouble back home. One of the watchdogs caught my scent and followed it.”

“In what universe is an angel a watchdog?”

“Who the fuck cares?” Dean, apparently, has finished his rushed packing because he stops short in the middle of the room, unable to take his eyes off of Zachariah’s body. “I just can’t figure out how he found me.”

There must be a ghost in the room, because Castiel’s body is suddenly ice cold. _Because I showed him your picture_.

Did this ‘Zachariah’ follow him to Ava’s apartment and then back to the motel after recognising Dean’s photograph?

He swallows. “How exactly do you kill an angel?” he asks, eyes falling upon Zachariah’s body. “I can’t imagine it being easy.”

Dean is silent for a moment before he holds up his blade. “This,” he says, tense. “You can use it as a regular sword, but it was made in heaven. It has the power to kill angels—as well as demons and most of the other nasties in the book. It’s the ultimate weapon.”

Castiel frowns. “How would Schulz have had it?”

“Oh, come on,” Dean scoffs, placing the blade into his duffle and working the zip closed. “You really think some witch would have owned this? It’s mine. It’s always been mine. I brought it with me when we visited her house.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Call it a family heirloom.”

“So your…your family, you worked for angels?”

Dean rounds on him. “ _Dammit_ , Cas, no more questions! Please, just…no more questions. I’ve already told you way too much.” Breathing unevenly, Dean hauls his bag up, hitching it over one shoulder. Castiel notices him touching his side with a wince. “We need to go. Forget this case, we’ve got to get as far away from here as possible. Then we can split up and you’ll never see me again.”

Castiel isn’t going to leave a case unfinished. He’s not going to walk out until he’s found Ava and put a stop to whoever is controlling her. He doesn’t _do_ that.

But Dean is scared.

And Dean is not going to mention it. Above all else, he’s not going to admit to it, but that doesn’t matter. Maybe Castiel hasn’t known Dean as long as he would like, but fear is something he knows how to pick.

He can’t ask Dean to stay here, not without knowing the whole story.

“That’s not going to solve anything,” he says carefully, not moving to pack his bags just yet. “Whatever it is you’re running from, I can help you fight it. I’m part of this now, so suck it up.”

Dean looks at him forlornly. “Cas, I’m sorry. I really am, but I just…” He holds out his hands, helpless. “Can’t.”

“What can’t you do?” Castiel urges, frustrated, and Dean looks down at the body once more. “You can’t tell me, is that it?”

“No—yes—I can’t let you help me with this. I thought I could. I thought somehow I’d make more mileage looking for Sam if I was with you but all I’m doing is wasting time and watching _television_.” Dean turns away, and Castiel sees him place his hand over the wound on his side. “You’re not helping me, Cas. You’re distracting me.”

It’s not the first time Dean has told him, but it hurts all the same. When Castiel finally answers, he sounds flat, defeated. “All of this…” He gestures around the room, to the body of the man—the angel—at their feet. “You’re trying to keep some big secret.” His eyes narrow, looking Dean over, calculative. “Initially, you weren’t going to tell me anything. The more you tell me, the harder it is for you to keep the rest hidden. Am I right?”

Dean doesn’t answer.

Castiel grabs him by the front of his t-shirt. “I know about demons. Apparently I now also know about angels. Right now, I don’t know enough to figure out the rest but you’re starting to worry that I will.”

“Don’t touch me,” Dean growls.

“What is it you’re so afraid of me knowing?” Castiel is very nearly shouting.

“They’ll kill me,” Dean snarls, shoving Castiel in the chest and pushing him away from him. “The angels, the demons, my—my family, they’d all kill me if they could, and they’d kill you if they thought it would bring them closer to me. I’m an army of one against the rest of the world and I tagged along with you because I was stupid enough to think we could help each other out while still staying in our own separate worlds. Well, we can’t, Cas, we just can’t.”

They stand opposite one another, both huffing.

“If there are angels around, we both have to get out of here,” Dean mutters, not giving Castiel a chance to continue. “With Zachariah dead they’ll send more to investigate and we can’t be here when that happens. I can’t fight them and neither can you. If they figure out you know me, they aren’t just going to let you go. You don’t—I can’t even begin to describe how much you don’t want angels as your enemies. All the fluffy wings and halos crap is bullshit. These aren’t just monsters, they’re _warriors_ of _heaven_ , and they don’t give a damn about collateral damage.”

Castiel is silent for a long moment, eyes narrowed. He’s read the Bible. If angels are anything like they are in that, he believes Dean.

It doesn’t change anything. “So that’s it then. You want us to just leave.”

“Want doesn’t even factor into it. I’m telling you.”

“I’m not arguing what our safest options are here, Dean.” Castiel’s voice is tired. “You’re the expert. I just want to know why you can’t tell me. Why you’re so convinced that I’m a nothing but a—a mindless hammer who can’t help your cause.”

Dean looks past Castiel, unseeing, and Castiel takes a tentative step closer, angling his head to catch his eyes.

“I wouldn’t be a distraction if you and I were on the same page,” Castiel says.

“Not now.”

Dean pushes past him, skirting Zachariah’s body and returning to Castiel’s bed, picking up one of the guns spread across it.

“Dean?”

“I’ll answer your questions. Once we’re out of here, and I’m sure we’re safe…” Dean picks up a second gun, the shotgun. He raises his head to look at Castiel, and the corner of his lip curls into what may have been a smile. “Just so you can’t reveal anything under heavy interrogation.”

Castiel joins him by the bed then, taking the gun out of his hands. “Are you really proposing we just blow town? Without finding Ava?”

Dean heaves a breath. “Would you come with me if I was?”

“No,” Castiel says.

Dean stiffens. “Cas—”

“I can’t force you to stay. Not if this is what’s going to keep happening.” He gestures to the body. “But I’m not leaving, Dean. I can’t drop this just as it’s getting interesting on your word alone.”

“You want more than my word? There’s a dead body!” Dean says in disbelief. “Fucking hell, Cas. Don’t make me drag you out of here myself.”

Castiel would have challenged his ability to do that, but Dean has just successfully taken on several demons and killed an angel with a knife wound in his side, so he doesn’t. “What would you have me do?”

“You are a right pain in the ass.” Dean raises a hand to his face, rubbing his forehead slowly. “There’s nothing we can do,” he says, grabbing Castiel’s sleeve. “There are angels running around Peoria; _they’re_ here for the yellow-eyed demon too. We can’t be here. We’ll find someone else to talk to. It’s no coincidence we found Ava by following leads from Lawrence; I doubt she’s the only one being controlled.”

Narrowing his eyes, Castiel lifts his head to look at Dean, and god, he’s tired. Morning is only hours away and he hasn’t slept at all. “Is that all she is to you?” he asks, deadpan. “She’s a frightened girl and she needs our help. If you say we can’t go after the demon then I’ll take your word for it but I’m not just _leaving_ her.”

“She—” Dean cuts himself off, gritting his teeth. “What’s your great plan, exactly?”

“Visit this house you went to, see if she’s there, and if she isn’t…I’ll go from there. She can’t have left the city. I’ll find her and then I’ll leave.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

Dean tosses the second gun carelessly onto Castiel’s bed again. “Fine, whatever. Stay here. I’m trying to help you but if you aren’t going to listen then I’m not going to bother. It doesn’t make a difference to me if you get hurt.”

That stings. “I’ll meet up with you later, once I’ve left.”

“No, you won’t,” Dean mutters, setting down his duffle bag, and for a second, Castiel thinks he’s about to agree to stay too.

Instead, Dean unzips the bag, carefully taking the old spellbook out from underneath his sword and dropping it on the bed.

“You should hold onto this,” he says, looking at Castiel, and his voice is tight, more curt and restrained than usual. “I don’t need it anymore, and there’s some useful information in there. About demons and angels as well.”

“Is this you saying goodbye?”

Dean zips his bag closed once more, without looking at him. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Placing a hand on his shoulder, Castiel stops him. “Why?”

“I have to do this on my own.” Dean heaves his bag up, letting it rest over his other shoulder, and Castiel’s eyes flit down to where his wound is.

It hits him that he doesn’t want Dean to go. Not out of some need for his help or even a selfish desire to know more about his past. This is an equally selfish desire; he doesn’t want to lose his friend. The fears that narrowly escaped fruition back at the zoo are coming back in full force, only it’s worse this time, because this time it feels more final, more absolute, and he doesn’t understand.

He’s back at home in Pontiac, and Samandriel is standing before him accusing him of his own murder, and he doesn’t understand. He’s pleading with Anna for her to hear him out, for her to consider the possibility that he isn’t crazy, and she isn’t listening to him, and he _doesn’t understand_.

Isn’t that just his whole life in a nutshell? Nobody bothers to believe in him because he is not worth the effort. Most of his life has been lived under a blindfold. Things happen _to_ him and he gets swept along for the ride, usually without knowing the rhyme or reason of why anything happens the way it does. He’s never the orchestrator of his own life.

Maybe that’s why he took to hunting with the ease that he did; it was a chance to break free of that mould. It isolates him from the rest of the world and the prospect of having a family or any halfway decent life at all, but at least he’s never the one left in the dark. He knows things that Anna and his parents have never dreamed of. He’s not being lied to, and secrets are not being kept from him. The only person who makes decisions for him is himself.

Of course, right now, he’s fallen back into that trap. He has no more control over his situation now than he did when Samandriel died. He doesn’t even know why. He understood why Meg left, and it had been okay. With Dean, all he knows is that there are a lot of highly dangerous beings in the world that are out to kill him, and that he is determined to face them alone.

Well, that isn’t all he knows. He knows Dean has a brother named Sam, and that both of them are in trouble for rebelling against their unnamed family. They’ve been kept apart from the rest of the world for a long time. Dean has, at the very least. He knows they practice magic and work for angels—or with angels. And he knows they hunt demons, presumably so hunters like Castiel don’t have to.

There’s also a dead angel in his motel room. He’s taking this very well, all things considered.

If he leaves Peoria with Dean, he’s leaving Ava at the mercy of her captors with no guarantee that the angels will take care of them.

But Dean has made it very clear that if he doesn’t leave with him now, he’s never going to see him again.

He kisses him.

It’s chaste at first, just an experimental touch of lips as he lets his hand relax against Dean’s shoulder. Dean doesn’t go rigid like Castiel expected him too. Instead, he parts his lips slightly, allowing himself to relax into the tentative press of Castiel’s mouth.

Ozone. Dean smells like ozone, and it’s an unusual smell for a person to have, but it’s not at all unpleasant, and when it’s obvious that neither is going to pull away, Castiel comes closer, fingers curling loosely into the short hair at the back of Dean’s neck.

It’s not like it was last time, all rushed and awkward and lost in the heat of the moment before either can realise what’s happening. This is gentle and deliberate, just the two of them and the knowledge that this is not going to last much longer.

Castiel has kissed a lot of people. He’s had his fair share of one-night stands and even failed relationships, back in high school, but this is different. This is very different. Dean senses that, too. For the most part, he lets Castiel lead their movements, responsive but hesitant, at least at first. He surprises Castiel by being the first person to make a sound, a short hum from somewhere in his chest followed by a startled intake of air. The sound itself isn’t elegant, but it makes Castiel smile against Dean’s lips as he cups his face, thumb tracing the shape of his cheekbone while he places another kiss against the corner of his mouth.

Their foreheads are pressed lightly together when their mouths finally part, both sets of eyes fluttering open, and Castiel sees forest green, and Dean is beautiful. He can feel warm breath against his cheek.

“Cas?” Dean asks quietly.

“Yes?”

Dean doesn’t answer. He brings his mouth forward again.

Dean kisses with his whole body. Dean kisses in the way his hands find their way to the front of Castiel’s shirt, cautiously feeling the solid muscle beneath like a man who has been starved of contact his whole life. Dean kisses in the way his hips move against Castiel’s and in the way he presses their two bodies together, touching everywhere that he can. Dean kisses in the way his golden skin glows wherever Castiel’s fingers brush it and in the way warmth radiates through Castiel’s body wherever they touch.

Castiel feels an arm wrap around his neck, with more confidence this time, and he curls an arm around Dean’s waist in response. Dean is taller than him—he has to tilt his head back in order to kiss him—but Castiel cradles him against himself, leaving tender caresses of his lips against his mouth and cheeks, and he thinks the two of them might be rocking.

It’s not an act of consolidation like in Montana but of comfort. There is no thought of Sam here, only them, and Castiel is afraid to let this go. He’s afraid to let Dean go, and he doesn’t understand why he has to, or why Dean thinks he has to.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs again, his breathing noticeably heavier.

“What is it?” Castiel’s voice is at least an octave lower than normal, and he’s trying to distinguish between arousal and a subconscious attempt not to speak too loudly.

“There’s a dead body right next to us.”

“Oh.”

So there is. He had forgotten.

Well, nothing kills the mood like having a corpse on the floor does. He’ll have to remember that the next time he needs to avoid sex.

“We should bury him.”

“No,” Dean says, shaking his head. “We should ditch the motel. We can be a state over by the time room service finds him tomorrow. Chances are another angel is going to find him before then. It’s better we don’t interfere any more than I already have.”

“Dean—”

“I want to help her, okay? _Believe_ me, I do, but this is not going to work. The demon isn’t going to let you find her if it sees you as a threat. It wouldn’t be using a human if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, which means there’s no way it’s letting her go.”

Castiel pulls away from Dean, sighing, and it hurts to realise that nothing between them has really been changed. Dean’s hand feels heavy as it drops away from his shoulder.

“Say I do leave with you,” Castiel says stiffly, folding his arms, and Dean suddenly looks very small. “You were incredibly keen to get rid of me earlier, Dean.”

Dean’s lips are red now, his freckled cheeks lightly flushed, and Castiel wishes he had a moment to appreciate the sight. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Castiel wishes he knew. “Are we ditching one another once we hit minimum safe distance?”

“Would it change your mind about staying if I said no?”

“Yes.”

Dean turns around, and Castiel doesn’t remember him putting down his duffle bag because he was holding it when Castiel kissed him, but it’s sitting on the bed now next to the two guns and the spellbook and Dean places his hand on top of it absentmindedly, staring down at the worn material.

It would change his mind, no matter how much it goes against Castiel’s instincts. He can tell himself it’s not simply a personal matter, and that his primary concern is about finishing what he’s started with Dean and seeing this through to the end but he knows that’s not completely true. If Dean tells him they will remain partners if he leaves Peoria with him, he will leave, and his reasons are nothing but selfish. How about that?

“Cas, I’m not trying to blackmail you into giving up this case,” Dean says. “That’s not what this is about.”

“What is this about?”

Dean looks down, and Castiel draws level with him. His eyes are downcast. “You get that I’m probably the worst company a guy can have, right?”

“Are you referring to the loud music or the random angel attacks?”

“Both?”

“I get it, Dean.”

Dean picks up his duffle bag.

“Do you want me to come? Not just away from here, but with you in the long run.”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

Dean glares at him, and it only takes a second for Castiel to realise he isn’t going to answer.

A distraction, Dean has called him. Not once but twice. Castiel isn’t going to stick around and be Dean’s distraction if that’s all he is to him. There’s no point in playing tag-team with him if he doesn’t want him around.

But it hasn’t escaped him that if Dean _didn’t_ want him around, he would have no problem telling him so. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be responsible for whatever Castiel does now.

Shaking his head in frustration, Castiel goes back to his own bed—the one half-burnt by wing marks—and starts to collect the rest of his weapons. They need to get out of this motel immediately either way. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, Dean.”

He’s not looking at Dean anymore, and he hopes the pit of dread in his stomach is not obvious from the tone of his voice.

* * *

 

They leave the motel at three a.m., and Castiel is going to have to ditch the credit card he used when he checked in, because chances are that it’s going to cost the motel an awful lot of money to clean up the mess they’ve made and he’s not about to let them use it to track him, even back to a false I.D.

There is a sinking feeling in his stomach; he never leaves a case unfinished. It remains unspoken, but there is a mutual understanding of the fact that Castiel is going to come back, whether it’s in a month or a year, for all the good it will do.

It isn’t as though there’s no work for them to do anywhere else. They haven’t given up on finding the demon, but that’s the way it feels to Castiel. He’s letting Ava down, no ifs or buts about it.

For the most part, neither of them speaks, with the exception of a few passing comments about where they’re going and where they should stop for the night.

Dean wants to drive, but Castiel doesn’t let him. Not with a knife wound, no matter how stoic the man can be. Castiel isn’t an idiot.

It doesn’t change the fact that both of them are sleep-deprived and hungry. More than once, he can feel the car drifting out of its lane, and Dean has to prod his shoulder with concern to make sure they don’t crash.

They don’t make it further than the forty-five minute drive to Normal, Illinois, and by then, Castiel is too tired to bother finding a motel room. He’s prepared to spend the next five hours in the icy confines of the Impala if it means he gets to go to sleep now.

Dean, of course, finds one anyway on his phone. How he does it is all but a mystery to Castiel; finding accommodation is not easy at four o’clock in the morning, but he’s not about to question it when Dean promises him that for the sake of driving another two block there will be a bed, and a shower for when he wakes up. He’s only human, after all.

“How is your side?” Castiel asks, once they’re finally inside the room they’ve rented. It’s the first real attempt at conversation either of them has made since leaving. He dumps his duffle on the floor.

Dean is already by the bed closest to the door fiddling with a marker pen from his bag, and Castiel’s question makes him look up. “Fine,” he says, putting the cap back on the pen.

Castiel shrugs off his trench coat, folding it quickly and leaving it on top of his own bag. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Do I look like a guy with a serious injury?” Dean mutters without looking his way, still rifling through his bag.

“No.” Of course he doesn’t. Dean looks the same as he did the day he met him. “That’s what I find hard to believe.”

Dean has just pulled a stick of white chalk from somewhere at the bottom of his duffle. He turns it over in his hands, looking at it seriously, before finally meeting Castiel’s eye. “We’re really going to talk about this now?”

“It’s just a question. I’m glad you’re not dead.” Taking a seat on the edge of his mattress, Castiel unties his shoelaces, still eyeing Dean thoughtfully as he toes his shoes off.

“I’m glad too,” Dean says, and Castiel chuckles. He watches in silence while Dean walks back to the door, tapping the wood once before drawing a sigil with the chalk that looks like a pentagram with one line missing. “Do we have any salt?”

“No, I left it with Ava at the church,” Castiel says, standing up once more as Dean walks to the perpendicular wall, drawing an identical sigil there. “We can get more tomorrow. You think someone followed us?”

“I’d rather not find out,” Dean says, finishing the sigil and assessing his work. Castiel folds his arms.

“Do you need help with that?”

“Almost done.” Dean makes his way to the wall opposite the door and draws the sigil again there. He surprises Castiel by turning and tossing him the chalk. “Here, you do the last one.”

“What are they for?” Castiel asks, joining him.

“Enochian warding,” Dean says, and Castiel realises that he’s breathing a little shallower than normal. “Keeps the angels out if any of them know where you are. You put one on all the cardinal points of a building and it works like a big salt ring for angels. Can’t get in or out.”

“I assume it doesn’t work for demons,” Castiel says, looking at Dean with concern as he slumps down onto his bed.

Dean nods, and Castiel frowns as he turns back to the last wall, checking the sigil on the door and using it as a reference to copy it.

When he turns back to Dean, he’s laying limply on top of the blankets, the crook of his elbow covering his eyes as if the room is far too bright.

“Dean?” Castiel asks, shuffling to his side none-too-slowly and setting the chalk down on the table beside his bed. Crouching, he presses a palm to Dean’s forehead, and the man chuckles underneath him.

“It’s just starting to catch up with me, Cas.”

Castiel withdraws his hand. “What is?”

“I killed an angel.” Dean moves his arm and raises his head, staring up at Castiel morbidly. “I don’t—Cas, I killed a fucking angel.”

There haven’t been a lot of situations in Castiel’s past that might have taught him how best to answer something like that. Up until now, angels and demons have been…abstract. Something that Dean talks about, and something whose existence Castiel is prepared to accept as a possibility but not something he’s _really_ allowed himself to give a great deal of thought.

If he had, he might have assumed that Dean has killed angels before. According to him, he owns one of the only weapons in the world capable of doing that. He even described the angel from the motel room as an asshole. Is that an area he has a lot of experience in?

Of course, had he given it a great deal of thought at a time when he was running on more than a few hours of sleep, the sheer enormity of the situation might have hit him a lot sooner.

Castiel has believed in God his whole life. Even after taking up hunting and moving on from the fantasy that that God was somebody with enough time to give a damn about what happened to one man in a world of billions, part of him still believed that there was a heaven, that there’s a place for souls to go when their time comes. His belief has never been synonymous with his faith. Given the amount of impossibilities in his life, accepting that there are angels in the sky is hardly the most outlandish thing he has ever done.

And he’s read the bible, so he can see where Dean is coming from. He can understand that angels might not be the peace-loving winged babies that Christmas carols make them out to be, but that only makes the idea of killing one—killing a creature born to serve in the armies of an all-powerful deity and go to war against hell—all the more sobering. Not to mention terrifying.

In the end, what is says is, “You don’t look so good. We should talk about this tomorrow.”

Dean nods slowly, closing his eyes, and Castiel sees him wince. “This wound isn’t healing as quickly as it should.”

“How quickly should it be healing?” Castiel asks, looking to Dean for approval before carefully drawing his shirt up to take a look at the bandage. There isn’t any blood visible through the cloth, but it will need to be changed tomorrow.

“I don’t know.” Dean props himself up on one elbow, looking down at the bandage as well. “It wasn’t as deep as it looked. I should be back to normal soon.”

That is hard to believe, and Castiel snorts, letting go of Dean’s shirt. “Have you had a lot of stab wounds, Dean?” He sits on the other bed, looking across at him.

Dean seems affronted by the question. It takes a while for him to answer. “Not like this.”

“Well, I have,” Castiel tells him. “And you’re lucky you’re as well as you are. It’s not going to get better overnight. Give it time.”

Dean scoffs, covering his eyes with his arm again and letting his head hit the mattress. “Go to sleep, Cas.”

There’s no argument to be found here. “Just take it easy.” Castiel looks at him seriously, although Dean can’t see. After a pause, he gets up, yanking his shirt over the top of his head and tossing it beside his duffel before bending down to rummage through the bag.

It takes a moment to realise Dean is watching him. When he looks up, the man’s head is swivelled to the side and peering out from underneath his arm. Upon catching his eyes, Dean smiles to himself, looking up at the ceiling once more. Castiel is tempted to make a teasing remark, but he doesn’t. Instead, he switches off the light and strips down to a clean t-shirt and boxers before then collapsing onto his own mattress.

Despite having lain down, his mind is still abuzz with activity. His thoughts are slow and muddled by lack of sleep, but too much has happened in the last twenty-four hours for him to let himself relax. Peoria, Ava, demons, angels, Dean.

The steady sound of the other man’s breathing has a lulling effect. Dean’s eyes are closed when Castiel turns his head towards him. He hasn’t bothered to change, hasn’t even climbed under the blankets. The dark patch of blood staining the side of his shirt becomes visible as Castiel’s eyes adjust to the dimness.

An injury like that should be in hospital. It should be incapacitating. Castiel has been stabbed enough times to know that. The fact that Dean has made it this far can only mean that he used a spell to heal himself. The realisation is a frustrating one; he wishes Dean would just tell him so. He wouldn’t like it, but when it comes down to life or death, surely he realises that Castiel would understand.

He probably doesn’t realise. Castiel has made his opinion very clear, and he starts to regret that now. This is something they have to discuss like adults if the two of them have any intention of working together in the long term. Dean’s reluctance to talk and Castiel’s reluctance to listen is the single greatest barrier that exists between the two of them. Unless, of course, Dean is an angel.

Castiel’s eyes narrow, and he turns his head again, looking at the bed beside his and the outline of the man on it.

It’s not a thought that he has had before. Castiel Novak is not a forgetful man and the idea that the man he has been travelling with for the last six weeks is actually a celestial being, no matter how fleeting, is not something he would fail to remember having occurred to him.

Now that it has, though, it takes no stretch of his imagination for it to settle into his conscious thought as easily as if he were reading the fact off a cereal box. The earth travels around the sun, mitochondria are the powerhouse of a cell and Dean Winchester is an angel. It’s such an easy thing to accept that it shocks him, because it makes sense. It makes perfect sense, about the healing and the weapon and the way he knows the things that he knows. It’s how he got from Texas to Montana in the time that he did and it’s the other side to every story that Dean has ever told him. His family don’t work with the angels, they _are_ angels, and if Castiel hasn’t realised it before, it’s because he has been in denial.

Across the room, Dean has not moved.

Castiel could not have been more certain if Dean had told it to him himself, but he’s already made up his mind that he isn’t going to mention it. It’s obvious why he would not be comfortable discussing such things, and forcing him to do so is not going to make it easier.

Still, Castiel has some thinking of his own to do, because this knowledge has a lot of implications for both of them. If Dean is an angel then Sam is too; it must be how he healed the people in Kermit. If Sam is an angel, Castiel can see why finding him has been next to impossible. He can see why his rebellion would bring down the anger of the heavenly host and he can see why Dean has been trying so hard to find him. In that moment, Castiel’s anger with Dean all but dissipates. He is alone and desperate and doing his best in an impossible situation.

If the realisation changes Castiel’s opinion of Dean it only serves to make him all the more determined not to leave him. His identity may be for show but Dean Winchester, if that is his name, is the most genuine man Castiel has ever known, and he has been alone for far too long. Being alone is something that Castiel can relate to all too well.

Chances are, Castiel will be angrier about this tomorrow morning once he’s had the opportunity to sleep on it. It’s usually the case for him, but he doesn’t get a chance to mull it over because next thing he knows, the time is nine o’clock and he is blinking himself awake to the latest edition of Dean’s podcast.


	5. San Diego, California

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild content warnings for drug use (We're dealing with Andy, after all), swearing and violence.

* * *

 

A text message from Anna is Castiel’s only reminder when his thirtieth birthday comes around. The message arrives at eight o’clock; Castiel and Dean are already in the Impala locked in a discussion about the most efficient way to kill a succubus, on the road to their most recent of several leads on the demon case. Dean glances over from the driver’s seat for a second, but he says nothing, even when Castiel digs the phone out of his pocket, looking down at the screen.

_Happy Birthday Cas, hope you’re well. I have the day off so feel free to call if you want. xx_

Castiel stares at his sister’s virtual kisses, the only contact he has had with her in years, with his lips pressed together and his brow furrowed. He tucks the phone into his coat pocket and the moment is gone.

The text is all he needs to know that Anna does not expect him to call her, and she is right. Once, these messages were frequent and lengthy; telling him about what she had been doing, asking how he was, filled with concern and meaning. Since then they have dwindled until now they are nothing more than single sentences, sent on his birthdays and at Christmas. There is a kind of resignation in those texts, the words of a woman who is giving up on him. 

Originally, Castiel tried to answer her, even call her regularly, just to let her know that her last little brother was still alive. Those conversations always ended the same; I’d love to see you, Castiel. You’re always welcome to come and visit, Castiel. Eventually, the hurt in her voice and the effort it took to pull out the empty promises in response became too much. Castiel hasn’t spoken to his sister in almost five years. 

“Junk mail,” he says to Dean, making him turn his head, and sits back in his seat, looking out the window again. This is not a conversation he wants to have right now. 

Dean doesn’t answer him for a second, his expression unreadable. When he does speak, he returns to the subject of succubi and Castiel doesn’t mention the message again.

* * *

Hunting is easiest in smaller towns, where everyone knows everyone and everyone will be talking about an incident by the morning after it happens. It’s harder for monsters to lie low, which makes them easier to find, and it’s also easier for hunters to catch their scent.

Arriving in a city the size of San Diego always comes with a sense of resignation, if not irritation. With millions of people packed into one place, monsters are drawn to it like moths. They can hide in plain sight, and hunters are hard-pressed to find them and take them out without arousing suspicion. 

And yet, on this occasion, Castiel is not here to kill a monster. He’s not even here to find a monster. He’s looking for answers, and a regular suburban couple who may or may not be witches. 

According to Dean, the Bakers work in advertising and moved to San Diego from Lawrence, Kansas in 1984 with their infant daughter to get a new lease on life. It hadn’t escaped Castiel that said daughter is the same age as Ava Wilson, with the essential difference that her parents are still alive and living what at least on the surface appears to be an honest lifestyle. It isn’t a lot to go on, and after the last person they checked out turned up no supernatural connection to anything, he isn’t optimistic, but in his line of work there aren’t a lot of coincidences. It’s the best they have.

They pull into town at half past nine, and Castiel would have been happy to find a motel and leave the hunting to tomorrow, but of course— _of course—_ Dean insists on pulling by the Bakers’ house before they do anything else. “Just to see,” he says, and Castiel decides not to argue if it will satisfy Dean’s curiosity. 

The house looks like any other middle-class suburban home. The lawn is green, separated from the road by a low wire fence. The Impala grinds to a halt in front of it, and both of their eyes fall upon the front door. Light is pouring from behind the windows, and there are two vehicles parked on the driveway; a simple white sedan and a large van with what appears to be a woman riding a polar bear depicted on the side, although it’s difficult to make out in the dim light. 

“Looks like the source of all evil to me,” Castiel comments, turning his head to Dean.

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean says, clearly distracted, like he’s listening to something else. 

Castiel looks at him dourly, waiting another moment for him to say more but not expecting much. 

“You see what you came here for?” he asks, prompting, and Dean finally turns to him. 

“I don’t know,” he says, sounding puzzled, and sighs. He was leaning over to get a better look at the house but now he sits back in the driver’s seat. “I just wanted to see the house, I guess, but we can’t talk to them now. We should find a motel.”

Castiel almost rolls his eyes. He could have told Dean that half an hour ago, but he’s long since learned that there is no point trying to change the man’s mind about such things. “We’ll grab something from that McDonald’s we just passed,” he says, catching Dean’s phone when he tosses it to him and opening Google Maps. 

“Right,” Dean says, looking at the road. “I’ll get whatever you’re having.”

“Sure.” Castiel is in the process of searching for a motel, but the request makes him raise his eyebrows, shooting a sideways glance at his companion while he waits for the results to load. 

Dean never eats food when Castiel in’t around, and while Dean never seems to have a problem with doing it, these days it is always Castiel that brings up needing to buy meals, never Dean. 

Castiel has not brought up his suspicions about Dean with the man himself, although it has occurred to him that it would make things a lot easier for both of them if he did, if Dean didn’t have to pretend to sleep, eat meals, try and avoid arousing Castiel’s suspicions. They need to be honest with each other. 

He still doesn’t. He keeps telling himself that the time isn’t right, but it’s been weeks now, and Castiel knows he is putting it off. Really, nothing about them has changed, but Castiel is quickly becoming obsessed with it. It’s hard to think about anything else, that his companion might be an angel. 

“There’s a motel two blocks and a left turn from the McDonald’s,” he says at last, touching the result on the screen to check its hours before going back to the map. “I’ll direct.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, looking Castiel’s way with a curious expression. Castiel is quick to look out the window to avoid staring at him. 

He hasn’t forgotten about the kiss they shared, either. If anything, Castiel has been thinking about that more even than the angel thing. It’s constantly on his mind, a never-ending presence, and Castiel has taken more cold showers in the last three weeks than he has in years. 

Sometimes he has to wonder if those feelings are reciprocated. Sometimes he’ll notice Dean watching him at times when he probably shouldn’t be watching him, and Dean…well, Dean didn’t exactly respond negatively that time in Illinois, or in Montana. 

There’s something there, but Dean has not brought it up since and Castiel is not going to push him to. Their situation is complicated from any point of view. Dean might be intelligent and beautiful and stronger than anyone Castiel has ever known, but even in the best of circumstances there is no end to the list of reasons why pursuing such a relationship would be a bad idea. 

They pick up a large paper bag of takeaway from the drive-through, and Castiel takes the liberty of eating his burger on the way to the motel, while he calls ahead to book a room. It’s greasy and processed and exactly what he needs. _Happy birthday, Novak_. 

“I was thinking tomorrow I’d do a section on succubi,” Dean is saying when they file into the motel room with their belongings.

“I don’t know why you’re telling me,” Castiel replies, tossing his rubbish into the bin. He’s already finished eating. “Since apparently I’m not qualified to hunt one.”

Dean snorts, making a beeline for the table and setting up his laptop, plugging it in to charge. “You’re not qualified to hunt shit, but I’m working on you. Hey, did you get the wifi password from the desk?”

Castiel smiles to himself, patting his pockets and pulling out the card the receptionist gave him. He hands it to Dean, who is unwrapping his own burger while staring intently at his computer screen. “I’m going to clock out now. Let me know if you find anything,” he says, because that’s their routine. Castiel goes to bed, and Dean stays up to research. Sometimes he goes out. Sometimes he gets into bed himself and pretends he actually needs to. 

On this occasion, Dean waves his hand, not stopping to look at him. “Goodnight, Cas.”

It doesn’t take Castiel long to brush his teeth and take a shower, emerging from the bathroom in a t-shirt and boxers with tousled wet hair before promptly tossing his clothes into a heap next to his duffle by the bed. Dean looks up when he does so, his eyes lingering a moment too long before turning back to his computer, and Castiel’s eyes narrow as he sits down on his bed of choice, leaning over to grab his pants and fish his phone out of his pocket. 

He opens Anna’s text message again, staring at it in silence. It’s too late to call her back now, but even if it wasn’t, what would he say to her? _I’m sorry. I miss you like hell. I hope your job’s going okay. I was so proud hearing about your promotion_. Castiel knows how those conversations go, and they achieve nothing except to make everyone involved feel like crap. No, it’s better for her to just think he’s changed his number. She knows he isn’t dead, and there is nothing else that he as her brother can give to her.

With a dejected kind of look, Castiel plugs his phone in and puts it down, getting underneath his blanket and realising Dean is still watching him from across the room. He has a puzzled look on his face, and Castiel knows he suspects that there is something troubling him, but if there is anybody that Castiel wants to have this conversation with less than Anna, it’s Dean, so he ignores him, pretends he doesn’t notice. They both have their issues, and of the two, Castiel’s are a lot less important.  

* * *

Dean isn’t in the room when Castiel wakes up. It’s a Sunday; he doesn’t have to make a new episode, and Castiel is used to him stepping out during the night, so he isn’t too concerned when he sits up to find the room empty. Dean’s bed is messy and unmade, and Castiel looks at it in silence for a few moments before he finally gets to his feet and stretches, checking his phone. It’s only seven o’clock, and there are no messages. 

It takes a couple of minutes to get dressed into his suit, straightening his tie and checking himself in front of the mirror when he’s finished. He hasn’t decided which approach will be best for talking to the Bakers—the FBI won’t work since no crime has actually been committed, so he’s thinking journalism or charity. 

Opening the door of the room reveals the Impala to be in the same place they left it last night, so Dean hasn’t taken the car, but with Dean he could still be anywhere. His laptop is gone, though, so he’s probably camped out somewhere researching. Castiel considers calling him but decides to check the Biggerson’s across the road first. Sure enough, upon entering the restaurant, a quick scan reveals the man to be sitting in the booth on the far side of the room. Smiling to himself, Castiel heads over to join him.

“How long have you been up?” he asks, sitting down opposite him, and Dean raises his eyes from his computer screen to look at him.

“We ran out of wifi at the motel and your modem was too slow,” Dean says, ignoring the question. 

“That’s because you’ve used all my bandwidth,” Castiel says. “What have you found?” he asks, picking up the menu and looking over it idly even though he has it committed to memory. 

“Well, the Bakers’ daughter, Lily?” Dean asks. “She’s about Ava’s age, yeah? Since she’s got the most in common with her I’ve been trying to dig up some background info on her. Until recently she was assistant manager in a retail store, but then about a year ago she just suddenly quit her job and sold her apartment. It looks like she moved back in with her parents after that. Nobody’s seen much of her since then.”

“Ava told me she first started getting headaches about a year ago,” Castiel remembers. “Do you think it’s him? The yellow-eyed demon?”

“Yeah, I do,” Dean says grimly. “Too many coincidences. He’s controlling her like he was with Ava.”

“Does that mean Lily can see the future as well?” Castiel muses, more to himself than to pose a question to Dean. Ava and Lily, there are probably more people out there like them. There is something different about them, something special. “We should stop focusing on the parents,” Castiel said. “It’s the kids who are important. Try making a list of all the babies who were born in Lawrence within a year of that November. Would that be too hard?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ve already started, actually. A lot of them are still in Kansas. Who says we make that our next port of call?” Dean asks, closing his laptop and setting it aside when a young waiter appears at their booth. Castiel orders some coffee and a stack of flapjacks. Dean just orders coffee.

“We can do that,” Castiel agrees once the waiter has gone. “But we need to approach this carefully. We can’t lose Lily like we did Ava.”

“At the very least she’s not surrounded by violent deaths. Maybe she’ll be more trusting. I’ve got a trustworthy kind of face.” 

Castiel snorts, but he doesn’t disagree. Dean’s trustworthy face worked on him, after all. But they aren’t going to take any chances. They just need to visit her and find out what she knows. Still, if Lily Baker does have premonitions the same way that Ava did, then there is every chance that she, or at least the yellow-eyed demon, already knows they are coming, and while they still managed to garner information in Illinois, they can’t rely on that happening again here. 

Their order arrives shortly after, and Castiel turns his attention to his breakfast.

* * *

“Fuck,” Dean says.

“Understatement,” Castiel rumbles in reply, and neither of them have left the car yet but they don’t need to. It was obvious from the moment they saw the ambulance rush past them, turning into the Bakers’ street just before they did that something was severely wrong. Castiel feels a sinking feeling in his gut.

They’ve stopped the Impala across the road from what remains of the house, having arrived only a minute after the ambulance. A fire truck is already there, with a crowd of neighbours gathered on the road as close to the building as they are allowed. 

The house itself is no longer visibly ablaze, but plumes of black smoke are billowing from the collapsed roof, suggesting there is still fire inside. 

None of the houses on either side of the house appear to be even slightly damaged. Whatever caused this came from within. 

Dean drives forward when a police officer ushers them to keep moving, but he parks further up the road without Castiel needing to ask him to, and they both get out. Neither of them have said a word since they first caught sight of the house.

“You don’t think—”

“I don’t know,” Castiel interjects, before Dean can give voice to what they are both thinking. Ava’s parents also died in a house fire, albeit when she was just a baby. This happening, especially the day after Dean and Castiel roll into town to investigate? It can’t be a coincidence. They saw this house last night. What had happened to cause such devastation in a matter of hours? 

They reach the crowd of onlookers, carefully nudging through to get a better view. Castiel catches snippets of conversations around them, hushed voices accompanied by pointed fingers. Reaching up to loosen his tie, Castiel peers around, looking for somebody local, and spots a woman in a dressing gown and slippers, shading her face with her hand as she looks up at the house. Giving Dean a quick nod, he sidles up to her. “What happened here, when—when did it start?” he asks, his voice awed and slightly shocked. 

She glances at him, and Castiel notices a few people nearby look their way as well. “Last night, just before morning some time. I could already smell smoke when I woke up.”

“Oh, god,” Castiel says, running a hand over his face. He can feel sweat on it. “Was anyone—was anyone hurt?” he asks, looking back at the house, and the woman sighs. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Baker,” she says, her expression mournful. “They were great people. I can’t believe something like this would happen to them.”

Castiel shoots Dean a look, but the man’s eyes are on the ambulance that just arrived. For the first time, Castiel registers the two covered stretchers being carefully loaded into the vehicle, and a lump settles in his throat. “What about their daughter?” he prompts, turning back to the woman in the slippers.

At this, she frowns. “Who?”

“The—the daughter,” Castiel repeats, trying to not to sound as impatient as he felt. “The Bakers had a daughter, I thought.”

“You mean Lily, right?” Castiel turns to see another woman, an elderly lady standing beside an old man, addressing him. “Little Lily Baker, she’s their only child. I haven’t seen her in years; I thought she moved away,” she adds, glancing at her husband. 

“Do you know where?” Dean asks, coming to stand beside Castiel, and Castiel looks at him. 

Predictably, the old woman does not know. She also seems confused by why he’s asking, and Castiel hurriedly adds, “I mean, she’ll have to be notified. By the police. It must be terrible for her.”

“Did you know her?” the old woman asks sadly, shaking her head. “She was a sweet girl. She used to make us dinner once a week, but she didn’t keep in touch.”

Castiel nods again, exchanging a look with Dean, whose arms are folded. A moment later, he turns away from the crowd and without saying goodbye, makes his way back to the Impala. Castiel quickly turns back to the two women, bidding farewell before hurrying after Dean. 

“That son of a bitch,” Dean says, pressing his clenched fist against the roof of the car. 

“The yellow-eyed demon?” Castiel asks, coming up beside him and leaning against the Impala as well, eyes fixed on Dean’s.

“How many people’ve gotta die?” he asks, looking up sharply.

“They might be unconscious.”

“They’re dead, Cas. Fuck, the day after we show up. This is our fault.”

“You don’t know that,” Castiel says, a surprising amount of force in his voice.

“This whole thing,” Dean is saying, not listening to Castiel, and he yanks the car door open angrily. “We’re gonna find this demon and ice that fucker.”

“Dean.” Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s arm before he can get into the car, and Dean exhales, sitting down sideways on the seat so that his feet are still on the road. “This is a case. We’re going to solve the case. Okay?”

Dean starts drumming his foot on the bitumen, his hand clenched on his knee, and nods. Castiel is almost surprised by how personally Dean is taking it, especially given the way he reacted with Ava. _He blames himself_ , Castiel thinks, eyes moving back to the smoke pouring out the top of the Bakers’ home. The smoke, that could conceivably be from anything but that they both know came from the yellow-eyed demon, or somebody working for him. 

“We’ve got to find Lily,” Dean says, sitting up. “Cas, why don’t you head over to the police station, find out what the cops are saying? I want to stay here, do some more poking around.”

The idea of splitting up at this point does not appeal to Castiel, to say the least. “They won’t believe you’re FBI and they’ll be keeping the media off the scene until the fire is put out,” he says, although he knows perfectly well that Dean has other methods of getting information. Really, he just doesn’t like the idea of Dean investigating this alone. Or even just separate from him. The last time they did that, Dean went off to fight demons and came back with an angel blade in his side.

Dean stands up again. “You know me, Cas; I’ll figure something out. I just want to get a look at this place while it’s still…hot,” he says, and Castiel sincerely hopes that wasn’t a joke. 

“Then I’ll stay with you to help,” he says dourly.

“We’ll cover more ground if we split up,” Dean argues. “Cas, I’m reckless, not stupid. If there are two of us snooping around somebody’s gonna notice and if there were any demons here then they’re gone now.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. This is pointless, and he knows Dean is right. This is Dean’s area of expertise, not his. He’s going to be looking for signs of demonic activity. “Call me in an hour,” he mutters with reluctance, and there’s a hint of smugness on Dean’s face. “I mean it, Dean, or I’m coming after you.”

“You wouldn’t stand a chance,” Dean says, but there’s no humour in his eyes. 

* * *

Castiel doesn’t spend a long time at the police station. They seem suspicious that the FBI would be on the scene for such a seemingly innocent event and so soon after it happened, but after convincing them that he’s investigating a string of similar arson cases, and a call to his supervisor in Sioux Falls, they’re willing enough to talk to him. There isn’t a lot to tell yet, though. The fire has only just been put out. Castiel does learn a few crucial things, though; one, that both of Lily’s parents are dead. It isn’t good news but it isn’t surprising, either. Castiel had never really believed anything different. Second, Lily herself was not in the house at the time. Her body wasn’t found. That is good news, but Castiel still has no idea where to begin his search. She’s never been reported missing, and from the sound of it, she doesn’t have a lot of friends that they can ask about her whereabouts. 

The police will be looking for her though, as next of kin. Castiel asks them to call him if they make any further progress on the investigation, and leaves, checking his phone as he exits the police station. 

He calls Dean. 

“What have you found?” he asks before Dean has a chance to greet him, making his way down the front steps to the Impala and opening the front door. 

“A couple of things,” Dean says. “I was right; Lily’s definitely been living with her parents. I found her room—it was in the undamaged part of the house.”

“I wonder if that means something. It looked lived-in?”

“Her bed wasn’t slept in last night but there was a dirty dinner plate that couldn’t have been older than a day so she’s been there recently.”

“She left last night,” Castiel wonders, starting the car and thinking back with a frown. Before or after they stopped by the house? They have some research to do. “Do you think she knew what was going to happen?”

“I think it’s pretty damn weird that she’s been holed up in her parents’ house for a whole year and then suddenly takes off the night before the place burns down, but, I don’t know. Something tells me she wouldn’t have just abandoned them if she’d known.”

Castiel sighs, staring ahead at the road as he makes his way back to the Bakers’ house. “We’ll avoid guessing things for now. I’m coming to get you. Once we’re back at the motel we’ll try and find her car. She must have taken one.”

“Call me when you get close,” Dean says, and hangs up. 

Castiel tosses his phone onto the passenger seat as he turns a corner, glancing up at the rear-view mirror. 

San Diego is a big place, but he’s not on a main road and there aren’t a lot of cars around, although there is a large green truck immediately behind him, and Castiel turns his gaze back to the road ahead. The truck turns off the road a moment later, and a blue van behind it comes into view.

At this, Castiel frowns, looking back in the mirror. He can only see the front of the van but it’s already drawing closer, tailgating. Pursing his lips, Castiel slows the Impala, forcing the other driver to slow as well. It isn’t the first time he’s seen the van; it was parked behind him outside the police station. It’s been following him ever since he left. 

It’s not just that, though. There was a blue van outside of the Bakers’ house last night as well; the one with the polar bear on the side. Castiel can’t see the side right now, but he has a strange feeling in his stomach. He hasn’t given much thought to the two vehicles they saw last night, but looking back on it, the driveway outside Lily’s house was empty this morning. 

The van has slowed now, returning to a safe distance behind the Impala, but Castiel isn’t convinced. He can’t make out the driver, but if it is Lily that’s following him, he obviously needs to know. After a moment of deliberation, he pulls the car over and turns his head to see the van when it passes. 

Surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly, it doesn’t pass him by. It stops just behind him. Subconsciously, Castiel reaches for his inner pocket, fingers brushing the gun he keeps there for the security it offers.

Castiel does not move to get out of the car. His eyes stay fixed on the rear view mirror as the driver opens the door of his van.

He has a fleeting moment of disappointment. It isn’t Lily, and that does little to put Castiel’s mind at ease, because it’s a man and he’s walking straight towards him. 

The man looks scruffy, a few days worth of stubble covering the bottom half of his face and wearing what appears to be a bathrobe. Castiel lowers the window of the Impala, not even remotely sure what to expect.

“Man,” he says, crouching down to look in through the window and shoot Castiel a grin. “What a great ride.”

“Excuse me?” Castiel asks.

“Sixty-seven?” The man is looking down the hood of the car now, nodding in what appears to be awe. “Impala’s best year, if you ask me.”

“I suppose so,” Castiel says, wondering if Dean would be better off in this conversation than him. 

“This is a serious classic,” he says, turning back to Castiel. 

“Can I help you?” Castiel asks abruptly. “You’ve been following me since the police station, what do you want?”

The man seems disappointed, even a little nervous. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“Castiel.”

“What?”

“Castiel Novak,” Castiel repeats, irritable. He’s always hated having to repeat his name.

“What are you doing in San Diego?”

“Looking for a demon,” he says.

“A demon?”

“Yes, a demon.”

“Oh, oh right, a demon, that’s cool.”

“I think there’s someone here who can help me find it. Her name is Lily Baker, and she might be in danger. I need to find her but she’s missing.”

“So you don’t know where the demon is?”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “There are actually two demons,” he says. “One of them is looking for the other and it’s using a bunch of humans to do it. I don’t know why. My friend, he seems to know more about it than I do but he won’t tell me anything.”

Castiel can see a lump rising in the man’s throat. “Shit, man,” he says, turning around. “That’s crazy. There’s no such thing as demons. You should go.”

“You’re right, it is pretty weird,” Castiel admits, starting the Impala’s engine. “I’m sorry to have kept you.”

“I’m serious,” the man says. “Just get as far away from this city as possible. Your friend is crazy.”

“I know,” Castiel says. “Again, I’m sorry.”

He leaves the man standing on the curb as he pulls away, doing a u-turn so he can get a look at the side of the van. Sure enough, the painting on the side is there; a fierce-looking woman atop a polar bear. He’ll have to remember that, when he leaves town.

Castiel suddenly goes rigid. When he leaves town. “What the fuck?” he says aloud, looking back over his shoulder, and the van is already speeding away. 

* * *

“You did what?”

Castiel can’t bring himself to look at Dean even as the man gets into the passenger seat. He grits his teeth. He hates having to repeat himself. “I don’t know, he just…asked me what I was doing and I told him everything; my name, about the demon, whatever. It was like mind control.”

“Oh,” Dean says, while Castiel pulls away from the curb again. “Oh, that’s great, mind control. That’s just what we need. And you’re sure it was the same van from last night?”

“The polar bear is a bit of a giveaway, Dean,” Castiel snaps. “Listen, I’ve got the plates. You need to run the number as soon as we get back to the motel so we can track him down and, and, I don’t know, stop him.” He inhales sharply.

Dean purses his lips. “Whoever he was, he knows Lily. Maybe he knows where she is.”

“She must have left with him last night,” Castiel says. “Dean, do you think he’s the demon?”

Dean is silent for a moment. “No,” he says at last. “Demons can’t do what he did, even the most powerful ones. Same way they can’t just see the future. This guy, how old was he?”

“Not old,” Castiel says stiffly. “Late twenties, maybe.”

“Ava’s age,” Dean replies quietly. “So maybe it’s not just premonitions, what if these…special people each have a different power. Ava can see the future, your friend from the van can control minds, Lily can do something else.”

“Which begs the question of who else is out there,” Castiel says. “And what they can do.”

“It all ties back to Lawrence,” Dean says. “I’ll bet you anything our guy was from there as well.”

“The yellow-eyed demon,” Castiel says. “He had the man ask me if I knew where the demon was.”

“Well then I guess it’s a good thing we don’t know.” Dean looks down at the floor of the Impala, lost in thought. 

Castiel writes down the license plate of the van when they reach their motel again, putting the paper on the table next to Dean just as he opens his laptop.

“Is this going to take a long time?” he asks, leaning against the table so he can look down at the screen while Dean works.

“It is if you’re staring,” Dean says, glancing up at him sourly. “The plates, no. Just give me a minute,” he mutters, turning his attention back to the computer screen, and Castiel’s eyes scan the room while he waits. 

“Okay, I’ve got it.” Dean turns the computer screen so that Castiel can see it as well. “It’s registered to Andrew Gallagher from Guthrie, Oklahoma. Born August 1984.”

“Oklahoma?”

“It’s been five seconds, Cas, hang on,” Dean mutters, pulling his computer closer again and resuming his typing. “The birthday’s right, though. If you want birth records and info about his parents it’s going to take longer.”

“The birthday’s enough for me,” Castiel says. There’s no doubt in his mind that this ‘Andrew’ is in the same boat as Ava and Lily. “Just focus on finding him. In the meantime I’m going to do some more research on Lily,” he says, reaching for the second laptop.

“You got any idea where to start?” Dean asks while Castiel sits down opposite, opening it.

“A few.” Castiel isn’t a hacker but he can start with the basics. He opens a new window on his own computer, going to Facebook and typing in Lily’s name.

He’s lucky enough to find her page in the first list of results, and he clicks on it. Her most recent update is from January last year; a photograph of a smiling Lily with another woman, a brunette.

Castiel looks at her information. “She has a girlfriend,” he observes.

Dean looks up. “Excuse me?”

“Lily, she’s in a relationship with a woman named Diana Smith. Or at least she was a year ago.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s on her Facebook.”

“What the hell is a Facebook?”

Castiel is silent for a moment, wondering if Dean is kidding. He always seems to be the more tech-savvy of the two, but then he’ll go and say something like that. Eventually Castiel just clicks on Diana’s name. Then he stiffens. “Oh.”

“What is it?” Dean asks, sensing the change in Castiel’s voice. Castiel is still looking down at his computer screen, a lump in his throat as he reads through the dozens of messages posted on Diana’s wall.

“She’s dead,” Castiel says. “She died last February.”

Dean is immediately on alert, and Castiel can tell he’s surprised that he hasn’t heard this sooner. “Was it…like Ava’s fiancé?” he asks.

Maybe Lily moved back in with her parents when her girlfriend died to help with the grief. Castiel doesn’t answer immediately, still reading through the heartbroken farewell messages of Diana’s friends. None of them are from Lily. 

“No,” he says at last, eyes stopping on one of the messages. “Heart failure, it looks like.”

“Seriously?” Dean comes around to join him, looking at the screen with a frown. “That’s weird.”

“Do you think we should talk to her family?” 

“You reckon they know anything?” Dean asks dubiously.

If Diana was killed by Yellow-Eyes in a way that made it look like heart failure, her family won’t know anything. There’s no point bothering them now, a year later. “No,” Castiel says at last. “We need to look for Lily. Andrew was talking with her last night so we’ll start with him.”

“Leave it to me,” Dean says. “In the meantime why don’t you grab us some lunch?”

Castiel checks the time, realising how much time has passed since he found Dean at Biggerson’s this morning. He doesn’t feel like eating right now, but he probably should. 

He will check in with the police later today as well. Not right now; it’s only been a few hours since he last spoke to them, but he needs to know what they know. Part of him also doesn’t want them finding her before he does, although he doubts she will be happy to see him. 

“Fine,” Castiel says. “I’ll give you a hand with research when I’m back.”

Dean waves him off, not speaking, and Castiel leaves him to his own devices, heading out of the motel. 

He picks up a couple of sandwiches from a nearby deli, looking around as he does so, like somebody is watching him. In this city, someone probably is. He carries the sandwiches out to the car with a growing feeling of unease, deciding that it’s not just paranoia making him uncomfortable. and it’s a feeling that in his profession he has not made a habit of ignoring. He puts the bag of sandwiches on the passenger seat, straightening up again and closing the door.

The street is not empty; there are a few people walking back and forth down the footpath, and a car drives past. There are more people inside the nearby buildings; Castiel can see groups milling around cafe tables, paying no mind at all the the man outside having a crisis beside his car. 

He spends another moment there, eyes scanning each passerby as if he expects to see their eyes flash, their body flicker, _something_. But of course, there is nothing. With great reluctance, Castiel gets back into the car, staring straight ahead while he buckles himself in. 

And then suddenly there’s a blade at his neck, and a sharp voice just beside his ear. “Drive.”

* * *

Castiel knows that there was nobody sitting in the backseat of the car when he got in. That’s the sort of thing that he notices. Of course, the fact that there was nobody sitting there when he got in does little to console him about the fact that there was most definitely somebody sitting there within seconds of his closing the door. 

The first thing he does is look in the rear view mirror, locking his eyes with the man in the seat behind him. The man, or whatever on earth he is. Castiel’s body goes rigid, his hand still on his seatbelt, as he weighs up his options. He’s no coward but he’s not a fool either. It takes exactly two seconds before he reaches forward and starts the engine. “Where?” 

The man does not look happy about Castiel’s compliance, but he doesn’t look angry either, which given nature of the situation is not a bad thing. Castiel doesn’t turn around; the blade is pressed too close to his neck for that to be a good idea. He glances out the window but nobody on the street seems aware of what’s happening. Instead, he turns his eyes back to the mirror. He can only see the man’s face, but he’s much too old to be the same age as Lily and Andrew. His eyes are not yellow, though.

“Take me to your friend Dean,” he says. Castiel’s hands are reaching for the steering wheel, and the request isn’t exactly surprising to him because everybody these days seems to want a piece of Dean’s ass but that doesn’t mean Castiel is keen on the idea of showing up at the motel unannounced with a homicidal maniac who is apparently able to turn himself invisible.

Castiel pauses. _Oh_. “You’re going to have to take that away if you want me to drive,” he says, deadpan. “I’m not dying in a road accident because I can’t turn my head.”

After a moment, the knife is taken away, but the message is clear. Castiel has no doubt that if anything bad were to happen to this car in the same ilk as what had happened to his last one, he is the only one of the two who will be any worse for it. He’s trapped; right now, all he can do is bide his time until he can figure out a solution, but he isn’t thinking of a solution right now, he’s looking at the blade that was just being held against his throat. Long and silver and about the length of a forearm, Castiel has seen in before, bloodstained on the floor of their room in Illinois. It’s absolutely identical to Dean’s, and this man is an angel. 

So Castiel has no intention of making any attempt to get himself out of this until they’re on equal footing. Namely, until they’re out of the car. Which he can’t do until they’re at the motel. 

The angel must have been following them though. It would not have been difficult to wait until Castiel drove back to the motel on his own and then confront Dean then, or to take advantage of Castiel’s absence to get him alone, which means that he needs Castiel as a hostage, presumably to get Dean to stick around long enough to talk. Castiel hasn’t spent a lot of his life being a hostage. He decides he doesn’t like it very much. 

His captor hasn’t said anything else to him, though, and Castiel isn’t looking to strike up conversation, especially since he doesn’t know what he knows. There’s no way he can warn Dean in advance about it, so for now all he can do is drive and pray to god that Dean still keeps his blade on hand. 

Castiel sets his jaw, his gut sinking when he turns into the motel parking lot. It was never a long distance from the deli, but he wants more time to think. He looks back at the mirror again when he parks, and the man is sitting up in the back seat, staring at the door that Castiel knows is his and Dean’s intently, like he already knows where Dean is. Then Castiel’s door is being opened, and he looks up in alarm to see the angel standing beside the driver’s seat. Within a moment, Castiel is being tugged to his feet with the blade pressed back against his throat while he is steered towards the room. His expression is absolutely murderous.

But he knows that the angel would not have bothered bringing him here like this if he didn’t need Castiel alive at least for now, so he takes a chance and calls out. “Dean.”

There is a fluttering sound behind them, one that Castiel swears he has heard before, and the man stops walking.

“I’m here,” Dean says. 

Castiel lets out a sigh, wishing Dean would just go. The angels can’t find him now, not after everything he’s done, everything he’s still doing. For the demon case, but also for his brother.

There’s a hint of a pleading look in Castiel’s eyes when the angel turns them both around to face Dean, but he’s taken aback by the sight of him. His feet apart, blade in hand, and an expression that can only be described as righteous fury. Castiel has never seen him look more like an angel.

The voice of Castiel’s captor seems overwhelmingly loud this close. “Nahaliel,” he observes, the sound a sneer. “I must admit, I didn’t expect to see you looking so well. Most of us, we’ve been starting to assume you were dead.”

“What do you want, Virgil?” Dean comes closer, but he stops when he’s still several feet away, and Castiel sees him look his way, his expression pained, riddled with guilt, and Castiel knows him well enough to recognise fear there as well. “And don’t tell me heaven sent you ‘cause I know that’s crap. They wouldn’t send _you_.”

“You haven’t reported back in almost a decade,” Virgil says. 

“Yeah,” Dean answers. “ _One decade_. I mean, grow up.” His face suddenly hardens. “Just let my friend go and then we’ll talk, how does that sound?” There is no humour in his eyes, and Castiel sees his hand tighten around the hilt of his angel blade. 

For his part, Virgil seems genuinely amused. “Your friend. Of course, the human. What would Michael say if he knew his favourite had been reduced to asking humans for help?”

Castiel tries not to be offended by that, and it’s not very difficult because the sharp edge against his neck is distracting him from most other thoughts. Virgil, though, is shaking his head, like he doesn’t expect an answer to his question.

“The thing is, _Dean_ ,” he continues, his mouth curling around Dean’s name and turning it into an ugly sound, “What you’ve got going down here with the humans, I’m sure it’s a lot of fun but there is work to be done back home, and sooner or later Michael is going to notice that your simple mission of finding Samuel and bringing him home has taken you nearly three decades longer than it was meant to.”

In spite of everything, Castiel’s eyebrows pull together at this. 

“Listen to me, brother.” Dean glances down at his blade, spinning it around in his hand as if testing the weight. He doesn’t answer the other angel’s statement. “I don’t want to hurt you, but if you don’t let him go, I swear to god I’m going to.”

Virgil wrinkles his nose. “You form attachments too easily, Nahaliel,” he says. Unexpectedly, Castiel finds himself being thrown sideways with enough force to send him skidding. The wind is knocked out of him when he hits the bitumen, and by the time he stops moving his entire right side is burning with pain. It takes him a moment to get his bearings once more. He almost forgot they were still in the car park. It’s too public a place, but something in him doesn’t doubt that they are safe from being seen by onlookers. Coming to terms with the fact that he is no longer restrained, he scrambles inelegantly to his feet once more, his hand cradling his elbow where it contacted the ground. 

Dean isn’t looking at him. In fact, he hasn’t moved from where Castiel last saw him standing. Castiel knows that this is probably his chance to get an upper hand, but he doesn’t know where to start. He can’t overpower Virgil and he doesn’t have an angel blade. Even if he did, he doubts he’d get that far. The only thing he can think of is the sigil Dean had used after they left Peoria, the pentagram with a missing line that trapped angels when it was drawn on the cardinal points on a building. Dean had been weakened by it, even more so than simply from his injury at the time. Of course, it would still effect Dean in this case as well, but it might give Castiel enough of an upper hand to get ahold of Virgil’s blade. 

He makes to move, but then Virgil’s hand goes up, flicking his wrist, and Castiel feels an unexpected force on his chest before he is hurled bodily back against the wall next to their door. The breath is knocked out of him when he hits the surface, his head spinning with the sharp pain of the impact. He tries moving, but he is stuck fast, held in an invisible vice. 

In front of him, Dean lunges for Virgil, and the angel grabs the wrist of the hand holding his blade, twisting it. Dean counters by slamming his other fist into Virgil’s side, which sends him stumbling backwards. 

At first it looks as though the two of them are about to continue fighting, but Dean doesn’t move to strike him again and when Virgil straightens up, neither does he. The two stand face to face. 

“I was right about you,” Virgil says, looking smug while Dean clutches his blade. “Michael should know by now that you’re too weak for this mission. To do what needs to be done. All this time, you’ve never been planning on bringing him back, have you?”

It takes Dean a moment to answer. There is pain on his face, but also seething anger. “What the hell is it to you?” he asks. “You’re the weapons keeper, Virgil. This ain’t your fight.”

“What happened to Zachariah?” Virgil asks without addressing Dean’s question, and Castiel sees Dean twitch with unease. Virgil notices it as well. “You think we don’t notice when one of our own goes missing? You’ve killed an angel. There is no turning back from that.”

“Just let my friend go,” Dean mutters. 

“Who, this?” Castiel feels renewed strength to the force that is still pushing him to the wall. “That’s always been your problem. You’re so emotional. You think you can get away with doing whatever you want because Michael trusts you, but I know what you’re really like. Zachariah knew as well, and there are others. I’m going to bring you back to Heaven—”

“No, you’re not,” Dean says sharply.

“What are you going to do, kill me?” Virgil asks. “Because more of our brothers will come, and when they do they aren’t going to be acting alone anymore. How much blood will be on your hands by the time this is over? How many angels will die before you and that abomination you call your brother face justice?”

And then Dean’s fist is connecting with Virgil’s face. Immediately, Castiel can feel slack on his invisible bindings, although he still can’t move. Virgil looks as though he’s going to fight back, but Dean is unrelenting, slamming the other angel back into the wall only a few feet from Castiel. There’s a faint clatter as Dean’s blade drops to the concrete, Dean having dropped it in the moment of confusion when he lunged, but it’s obvious that he doesn’t care or even need it. There is too much vengeful anger in his eyes. “You leave him out of this, you son of a bitch,” he growls.

Castiel is barely aware of the fact that his whole range of movement is back. He slumps forward from the wall, taking the chance and grabbing the fallen blade from the ground. 

Virgil does not seem stirred. He stares back at Dean, barely aware of the injury to his face. “But that’s what this whole thing is about,” he says. “You killed Zachariah because he was going to tell everyone you were planning on rebellion. Rebellion, and for what?” He looks up at Dean with a cold, uncaring expression. “For a traitor and a liar who can barely be called an angel anymore that you haven’t seen in centuries. It’s always been about Sam.”

Dean lands another punch upon Virgil’s face, and then another, and the angel doesn’t even try to fight back. There is fire in Dean’s eyes, and rage and pain and loss, and then his other hand is coming up, the edge of his angel blade pressing steadily against Virgil’s neck. “You’re damn right it has.”

At this point, Virgil seems fed up with talking. He shoves Dean in the chest, and Dean doesn’t go flying in the same way Castiel did but Virgil is definitely strong enough to push him away, swinging his angel blade as he does so. Dean lets out a sharp breath as the tip of the blade grazes his stomach. A sliver of white light pours out through Dean’s bloodied t-shirt accompanied by a soft, high-pitched hum, and for a fraction of a moment he touches the spot, eyes focused on Virgil while he comes to the realisation that he’s dropped his angel blade. 

Virgil swings his own again in a downward arc, this time going for Dean’s face, and Dean’s hand comes up just in time to block it, the blade suspended a few inches from his face. Dean grunts, pushing it back again just as Virgil’s hand slams into his stomach again, in the place where he is bleeding. 

Dean stumbles backwards a few feet, and then Virgil is upon him, hand wrapping around his arm and pulling him into a more upright position. Dean’s eyes fall on the angel blade in Virgil’s other hand, poised for a killing blow. 

“You’re not gonna kill me,” he says, his voice rough but with conviction.

“No,” Virgil says. “But I have other ways of making you cooperate,” he continues. “You will come back to Heaven and face up to what you’ve done. The truth will be known.”

Dean leans closer to Virgil, their faces inches apart. “Bite me.”

And then Virgil goes rigid. Dean’s eyes widen as the other angel’s lips fall open, brilliant light pouring forth from his eyes and mouth, and a deafening whine fills the air. The hand on Dean’s shoulder becomes slack and Dean quickly backs off while Virgil’s lifeless body crumples backwards. Backwards against Castiel, who steps away, pulling Dean’s angel blade from Virgil’s back as he does so and leaving him to slump to the ground between himself and Dean, lying half on his front with white light still pouring from the near-bloodless wound.

It only takes a few seconds for the light to fade, for the terrible noise to stop, but by the time it does, there is a horrible feeling in Castiel’s stomach as he comes to term with what he’s just done. 

Dean, for his part, is not looking at him. He’s staring down at Virgil with an expression that looks like horror, and Castiel wonders if Dean can’t actually bring himself to look at him. Castiel knows he did what he needed to. There was no other way. But looking at Dean now, he doesn’t know what to think. 

“God, Cas,” Dean breathes, looking down at the giant wing marks that now appear scorched on the surface of the parking lot. His fingers move absentmindedly down to touch the cut on his stomach but if he is in pain he doesn’t show it. 

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks hoarsely. 

“Fuck, Cas.” Dean runs a hand down his face, and then he spins around, looking around the parking lot. Without warning, he disappears, the gentle fluttering noise from before heralding his departure. 

Castiel is still worked up from the encounter with Virgil, but the sudden disappearance catches him off guard. “Dean?” He raises his voice, hardly even caring if anyone else in the motel hears him. If any of the noises coming from this car park are going to have concerned the other guests, it isn’t this one. “Damn it, Dean,” he shouts, turning around on the spot and then looking down at the body on the ground. They can’t just leave it here, and they can’t allow themselves to be scared out of town like they were in Illinois, not this time. They’re finally making progress.

Looking in all directions, Castiel bends down, hefting Virgil’s body up once more and hauling it over to the Impala, managing to shove it indignantly into the trunk. He’ll feel guilty about that later, but for now their priority is getting it out of sight. He pauses when he sees Virgil’s angel blade on the ground near the wing marks; he dropped it when he fell. Castiel picks it up, transferring it to the hand that is holding Dean’s. 

He locks the car before going back into the motel room, looking around it in silence. Dean’s computer is still on the table, open to what looks like a list of credit card transactions. Exhaling heavily, Castiel puts the two blades down on the table next to the computer before slumping down in the chair. He should be packing the Impala; for all he knows, there are a dozen police cars speeding towards the motel right now. Castiel runs a hand over his face. God fucking damn it, Dean. He’s going to yell at him when he gets back. 

He stands abruptly, going back over to his bed and shoving his loose clothes into his duffle. Then he checks his phone, contemplating for a moment before calling Dean’s cell phone. He hears a it ring a second later, looking up to see it sitting on its charger next to Dean’s bed. 

Castiel hangs up in frustration, tossing his phone down onto the bed. He had no way of finding Dean; he could be anywhere, and he probably thinks Castiel is pissed as hell.

Well, it’s not like Castiel isn’t pissed as hell, but he’s also worried. 

It hasn’t escaped him that Dean might be mad at him, either. He didn’t say enough before he left for Castiel to get a read on his mental state, but given the circumstances, he’s unlikely to be feeling good. About any of this. 

Castiel finishes packing his bag, carrying it and the weapons out to the car and depositing them in the back seat before going in and packing Dean’s own belongings; the laptop and the book and the few spare clothes he has. At least twenty minutes have passed, and now that Castiel has had the chance to turn over what happened in his head, he’s starting to get really suspicious at the lack of activity around the motel. Cautiously, he makes his way to the reception office, ringing the bell once he’s inside. 

The woman who comes to meet him doesn’t seem concerned by his presence. If anything, she seems bored. She appears to be texting when she comes into the room, only looking up a few seconds later and asking in a tired voice what she can do to help.

Castiel is holding his room key, but after a moment of deliberation slips it back into his pocket. Maybe he won’t check out just yet. Dean needs to know where to find him. “I was wondering if we could get some extra pillows,” he lies.

So it looks like nobody heard the commotion outside in the car park. Which is weird, but not the weirdest thing to happen to him today. Absentmindedly, he touches his neck where Virgil’s blade was held. 

The woman ducks out briefly, coming back with a couple of large white pillows which she promptly hands to him, and Castiel thanks her before crossing the car park back to his room, tossing them onto his bed before closing the door again and going back to the Impala. He tries not to look at the wing marks still burned onto the bitumen. Anyone else might be able to dismiss it as graffiti, but Castiel feels a pit in his stomach as he’s forced to walk over them. 

He’s killed plenty of monsters. And Virgil…well, he was a monster. There’s no doubt in his mind that he would have had no problem with killing him if it had been necessary. Angel or not, if it’s supernatural and dangerous, it’s his job.

But now Dean is gone. Castiel starts the Impala’s engine, pulling away from the motel and the terrible marks it bears. 

* * *

San Diego is a busy city. There aren’t a lot of places private enough to dispose of a body. By the time he finally pulls back into the motel, smelling of ash and smoke, it’s getting dark. Dark enough that Castiel doesn’t have to look at the scorch marks when he crosses the short space from the car to the door. 

He swipes his card key, letting himself in, and Dean is there, sitting stiffly on one of the beds. His head turns quickly when he registers Castiel’s entry. 

Castiel stands in the doorway, and the two assess each other, neither speaking. 

When the silence is eventually broken, it’s Castiel who breaks it. “I burned his body,” he says flatly. “All our stuff is in the car. I’d been planning on leaving but for some reason nobody in the motel seems to have a clue about what happened here.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. His voice is soft, subdued. “I took care of it. They’ll be fine. The guests, the staff, the cops. It’s all fine.”

Castiel raises a hand to his face, rubbing his forehead. _You’ll be the death of me_. “So you’re an angel.”

“You don’t sound very surprised.”

“Well, I’d sort of assumed you were,” Castiel says. “After Illinois.”

“Son of a bitch.” Dean looks as though he’s about to laugh, but there is no humour in his eyes. “You should probably have said something.”

“Because you’ve always been so forthcoming with me,” Castiel replies coldly. If there’s anything to laugh about here, it’s that Dean has to audacity to tell _him_ that he should have said something. 

Dean looks down at the floor. He hasn’t met Castiel’s eye since he entered the room, and Castiel wonders how long he has been waiting here for him, just sitting quietly on his bed. “I know, Cas,” Dean says at last. “You’re right, about everything, and I’m sorry. I screwed up so badly and it almost got you killed.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Castiel asks blankly. “I don’t care about that, Dean, everyone tries to kill me. But I’m not going to pretend it wouldn’t have helped if you’d been honest with me.”

It takes a while for Dean to answer. “I understand if you don’t want to travel with me anymore,” he says quietly.

“You already know how I’m going to answer that.” With a frustrated sigh, Castiel sits down on the opposite bed to Dean. “Listen, you ass, whatever happened to you before I met you, I don’t care. Not in the sense that I don’t care what it means to you, it just doesn’t mean anything to me. I really don’t care. But I need to know.” 

When Dean finally raises his head, locking eyes with Castiel, he is taken aback by the sheer amount of sadness on his face. Castiel has never seen Dean cry, not even that night in Montana when he first heard Sam’s name, but if there were ever a time when Dean looked like he might, it is now. 

“I’ll tell you,” Dean says. “Really, Cas, I will, but you’re gonna be pissed as hell when I’m done.”

“Is that right?”

“Oh yeah. We’ll see if I can’t change your mind about the not caring part.”

Castiel seems interested, and Dean stands up, heading over to the door. He enters the room again shortly after, holding his bag under one arm and the two angel blades in the other. After a pause, Dean hands him one, and Castiel notes that it’s the one without blood on it. “You should hold onto this, by the way,” he says. “You might need it.”

“You think more of them will come?”

Dean turns away, dumping his bag on the table. “Eventually, yeah.”

“But you’re not asking us to leave town this time.”

“Zachariah wasn’t in Peoria looking for me,” Dean says, sitting down next to the table. “He was there for the same reason we were; Ava Wilson. Or at least, he was monitoring the demonic activity surrounding her. We just happened to stumble across each other. Heaven knew where he was; they’d notice as soon as he was missing and send someone to look.”

“But Virgil, he was here for you.”

“My superiors think I’m in Hell, Cas,” Dean says. “I was assigned the task of finding Sam because before this whole thing started, I was closest to him. They thought I’d be the best guy for the job. That I’d know where he would go—and they’re right, but anyway, I told them he’d be in Hell—and believe me, I’ll get to that,” he adds before Castiel can interrupt, “—and I told them I’d go down there and find him. And man, Hell’s a big place. I could be down there a for century and they wouldn’t think anything of it. Angels aren’t known for hurrying things along. But I know Sam and there’s no way he’s still in Hell; he’s on Earth somewhere. I thought if I bought myself enough time I could find him, make sure he was safe. And then, I don’t know, tell Heaven he’d gotten himself killed so they’d just forget about him.”

Things are starting to click into place. Castiel recalls Zachariah’s reaction to seeing Dean’s photograph. He would have known right then that something was wrong, if Dean was not in Hell like he had said he was. With a jolt, Castiel realises that this whole thing is his fault. If he’d just trusted his instincts then Zachariah would never have found them, and apparently neither would Virgil. 

Once Dean has given him enough time to process this information, he hurries on. “I guess after they found Zachariah theories started flying around as to what happened. You don’t—it’s _really_ hard to kill an angel, you have no idea. The only weapons that can do it are weapons created in Heaven. Basically, the only thing that can kill an angel is another angel. Virgil must’ve guessed that it was me and, I don’t know, tracked us down to make sure before he tried telling Michael.”

“Michael,” Castiel echoes, remembering Virgil’s words. _Michael’s favourite_. “You don’t mean—”

“Yeah,” Dean says stiffly. “That Michael. The head honcho upstairs.”

“I thought that would be—”

“Not anymore,” Dean says quietly. Castiel is silent for a moment, and he doesn’t push it. 

“So.” Castiel clears his throat awkwardly. “How do you know Virgil was acting alone?”

“Because he’s an asshole and nobody likes him.”

“Really, Dean.” 

“I’m serious. Virgil is the weapons keeper. He’s one of Heaven’s nastiest warriors but he thinks he’s better than everyone else. He’s always hated me. He hates everyone, actually. He’s not the kind of angel who would ask for help.”

“So we’re safe for now.”

“For now. I mean, Heaven is going to notice he’s gone, but they won’t know where to start looking. I’d say we’ve got a few days before they trace him to this city. We just need to be gone before then.”

Dean’s words aren’t entirely convincing, but Dean isn’t stupid and Castiel knows he wouldn’t suggest staying in any other case, especially with how urgently he made them leave Peoria. 

So they have to get to work on finding Lily and Andrew as quickly as possible and dealing with this demon case before they have to leave. They’ve been under worse pressure before. 

And they also need to find Sam before the angels do, because even with Virgil dead sooner or later they’re going to figure out what Dean is doing and send someone else after him. 

Castiel looks out the window. It’s well and truly dark now. “Is there some kind of warding you can put up around the motel?” he asks. “To keep them from being able to find us?” 

Dean smiles a tiny bit. “I already have,” he says. “I do it at every motel we stay at—I have an invisible marker,” he explains hurriedly. “It blocks magic but it doesn’t stop ‘em doing it the old fashioned way. It’s why Virgil had to find me by following you.”

“Sorry about that.”

Dean makes a face but he waves his hand dismissively. “Let’s unpack the car,” he says, and Castiel wonders if he’s putting off telling the rest of his story. 

They unpack the car anyway, making a few trips back and forth as they carry their bags and belongings back into the room. Dean grabs the sandwiches off the front seat with interest, selecting the one he wants and tossing Castiel the other. 

“Do you need to eat?” Castiel asks.

Dean pauses, looking from the sandwich to Castiel. “No,” he admits. “It’s a habit I got into for your benefit. I’d never eaten before I met you.”

“So that burger in Kansas was the first time you’d—”

“Yeah.” For a second, Dean looks almost wistful. “It was awesome.”

“I remember.” Castiel sounds amused. 

Dean unwraps his sandwich, and Castiel shrugs before doing the same. “You can tell me the rest of it tomorrow, if you want,” he says.

Dean looks up. “What, about the burger?”

“You know what I mean, Dean.” Castiel hasn’t taken a bite of his sandwich. He’s watching Dean. “You don’t want to talk about it right now, I get it. We’ll focus on the case first.”

There’s a lengthy pause before Dean answers. “Thanks, Cas.” His voice is soft. 

They each start to eat, a comfortable silence between them, and Castiel finds himself watching Dean the whole time. He’s taken his computer out of his bag and has started typing something, although Castiel can only see the back of it. 

Unexpectedly, Castiel laughs. It’s a quiet kind of laugh, but it makes Dean look up. “What?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Nothing, I just never would have guessed that you had a weirder name than I did.”

Dean looks like he’s considering throwing something at him. “You love it.” 

“Really, though, what was it, Nahaliel?”

“Let’s just stick with Dean,” he says. “I’ve been Dean for thirty years.”

Thirty years. The same as Castiel, as of yesterday. There’s something nice about that. “How old are you, Dean?”

“Older than you,” Dean says, leaving it at that. Castiel doesn’t doubt it. 

Castiel wants to say more. He wants to ask more. There’s a lot more that he needs to day, but Dean doesn’t give him a chance to. He changes the subject. “I found Andy’s van.”

“Andy?”

“That’s what people call him,” Dean says. “He’s been parking that thing downtown for the past couple of weeks; I found some footage of it. It looks like he lives out of the thing.”

“You think he’d go back there?” Castiel asks.

“Only one way to find out,” Dean says. “We can go tonight.” 

Castiel nods slowly. If Dean knows where to look it won’t take them long. They don’t have all the time in the world and the sooner they do this the better. If Andy and Lily blow town they’ll never find them again. “You should talk to him this time,” he says, after a moment. “I don’t think what he did to me will work on you.”

Dean looks at him, amused. “It’s okay, you can wait in the car.”

Castiel has no intention of doing that, but he grunts in acknowledgement anyway. 

He isn’t particularly in the mood for going driving at this time of night, not after he’s already burned a body and had a knife to his throat all in the same day. He’s tired and hungry but he’ll go, because if he doesn’t then Dean will go by himself. It’ll probably be easier at night anyway, with fewer people around.

They set out half an hour later, after Castiel has had a shower to try and get rid of the smell. Dean drives the car since he knows where they’re going, and Castiel spends the entire trip leaning against the passenger door, watching him with a curious expression. 

Dean notices it, too. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he says. 

Castiel’s lip curls, but he doesn’t look away. “Am I going to go to hell for kissing you?” he asks.

Dean is silent. Castiel notices him stiffen as well. It’s the first time either of them has brought it up since they were in Illinois, and it’s the one final elephant in the room. They need to address it, and now that the One Big Secret is out of the way, this is as good a time as any.

After a moment, Dean relaxes. “No,” he says matter-of-factly. “You’ll go to hell for killing an angel.”

“Oh, good,” Castiel says. “I was starting to worry.”

“If it makes you feel any better, so will I.”

“It does make me feel better. Thanks.”

Dean drums his fingers on the steering while, staring determinedly out the windscreen. “You’re not going to hell,” he says suddenly. “I won’t allow it.” 

“Is it even up to you?” Castiel asks.

“Like I said, angels run the show up there,” Dean says. “Once I find Sam I’m going to go back, I’ll arrange it, make sure you’ve got a full ride. Nobody’ll know what happened down here.”

He doesn’t even know that he wants to go to Heaven. It’s not like he wants to go to Hell, but the idea of eternity in a grassy meadow does not appeal to him. Not after all the blood he’s spilled during his lifetime. Monsters or not, that kind of life leaves you bloody, unclean. He can’t just shake it off and he doubts he’ll be able to when he’s dead, especially since he’s certain that’s going to be messy and violent and before he turns fifty.

“What’s Heaven like?” he asks, unable to help himself. There are probably rules in place about not telling people that, but Dean has shown himself more than capable of ignoring rules.

“It’s different for humans and angels,” Dean says. “When a soul goes to Heaven it generates a paradise for itself. It’s usually based on a real place, like a nice memory or a dream home, and they get to live out the rest of eternity there.”

“Just like that?” Castiel asks. “Isn’t anyone else there?”

“Sometimes people share heavens—you know, soul mates. But most of the time it’s just you.”

“That sounds like it would get boring very quickly.”

“Time passes differently for a soul in paradise,” Dean explains. “An hour up there might be a year down here.”

“Even then.”

“I don’t know,” Dean says, sighing. “Something changes in you up there, I think. Down in Hell, I told you, it’s like there’s a fire burning away everything about you that’s pure and good until what you’ve got left is a demon. In Heaven, it’s more like you lose the stuff that’s bad. All the anger and the guilt and the loss, it just disappears after a while, and there’s no need to feel sad about what you’ve left behind. You’re at peace.”

Castiel listens to him talk with a muted expression. Dean talks like it’s been programmed into him, but there’s an edge of unhappiness to him. “You dislike the idea.”

“Don’t you?” Dean shrugs. “It’s not a fate meant for angels. I don’t really think about it.”

Castiel pauses. “You don’t have to do that for me, Dean,” he says. “I take full responsibility for my actions, and frankly, you’re right. It doesn’t appeal to me. I’ll take my chances down here.”

“You’re a dumb son of a bitch,” Dean says, smiling slightly. 

Castiel’s eyes wander out the window again while Dean drives. It’s dark, but the city is full of artificial lights. He wonders if Dean will get to go back to Heaven at the end of all this. Virgil figured out what happened; it’s only a matter of time before others do as well. He wonders if Dean even wants to go back. He’s never seemed particularly satisfied with his ‘family’. Down here, Dean is happy. He likes his show and his blog and the hunts they go on, and Castiel finds it in himself to hope that Dean likes being with him as well. 

“When we find Sam,” Castiel says, looking at Dean again as he approaches the unfamiliar territory, “How are you planning on keeping him safe?”

Dean looks at Castiel, taking his eyes off the road for a moment. “By convincing him to give up his grace,” he says simply.

“His grace?”

“It’s like a life force that all angels have,” Dean explains, looking back at the road. “It’s a little different from a soul, which is the essence of a being. Grace is just raw power. Pure creation. It’s what makes angels what they are.”

“And you want Sam to get rid of his?”

“Without its grace, an angel stops being an angel,” Dean says. “You take away the power and it’s just the soul underneath, all fresh and new. You’re basically a human, and there are billions of humans. They’d never find him. I could give his grace to Michael and he’d assume he was dead. He wouldn’t even question it.”

“But Sam would be mortal,” Castiel points out. “You’re sure he’d want that?”

Dean lets out a sigh. “You don’t know my brother,” he says, a fond kind of look in his eyes. “He’s always been different, even before humans were even a thing. I was too. It’s what we bonded over. He was never meant to be an angel. He was the worst angel I’d ever met. Didn’t care about following orders; Sam just lives to help people. Nobody else seems to get that. He’d rather get sent to Hell than watch some human die. Right now, he’s buzzing around the country healing the sick. Without his grace, he wouldn’t be able to do that, so he’ll say no, but I’ve got to convince him it’s worth it.”

“And then what?” Castiel asks, turning over this information in his head. “You just fly back to Heaven and go back to being Michael’s favourite?”

Dean’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, and Castiel wonders if maybe that was insensitive. He didn’t mean it maliciously; just the opposite. But he can’t deny that he wants Dean to stay as well. If any angel was really meant to be a human, it’s Dean. This is where he belongs. 

“Yeah,” Dean says at last, his whole body tense. “I guess so.”

“Right,” Castiel says, looking out his window again. Why should that bother him? It’s Dean’s life. “You couldn’t stay down here with him? You know…give up your grace as well.” And me, you could stay here with me. 

Dean exhales softly. “No,” he says. “We can’t both go missing. They’ll know something’s wrong and go looking. Angels aren’t the type to just let things go.”

Castiel hesitates for a moment before tentatively pressing on. “But if you could,” he says. “Would you want that?”

Dean runs his hand down the side of the Impala’s steering wheel absentmindedly. “I’m not like Sam,” he says at last. 

For a moment, it looks like Dean is going to elaborate, but the man quickly thinks better of it. And then he perks up again, staring at the road up ahead, and Castiel sees the familiar artwork on the side of Andy’s van illuminated by the headlights. “Son of a bitch,” he says. It’s exactly where Dean thought it would be. He looks at Dean, knowing they’ll continue their conversation later, but for now they have a case to focus on. No distractions of any kind.

The van is in a parking lot behind a gas station. There are a couple of other vehicles parked there as well, and Castiel eyes them warily as Dean pulls into the parking space across from Andy’s van. 

Dean turns to Castiel. “If he starts doing the Jedi thing—”

Castiel shoots him a look. “I know. I stand back, let you do the talking. I won’t enjoy it, though.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Dean says, cutting the engine and getting out at the same time Castiel does. 

It doesn’t look like Andy is expecting them. The outside of his van is quiet and dark, and Dean heads over in front of Castiel, rapping once on the window. “Hey, buddy, it’s your guardian angels. Open up,” he says loudly, making Castiel glare at him and jerk his head in the direction of the gas station. 

There is no answer from within the van, and after sufficient time has passed, Dean heads around to the back doors and opens them effortlessly, peering inside. “Empty,” he says, and Castiel comes to join him.

It’s empty in the sense that Andy is not inside it, nor is anyone else for that matter, but the interior of the van is full of _things_. A makeshift bed is strewn across the floor along with piles of piles of books. There’s a disco ball hanging from the roof, and Dean reaches for the closest object, a clear bong that is at least twice as large as it needs to be, and turns it over with a curious expression. “He can’t be far,” Dean says simply, casting his eyes around. 

“What are you two doing here?” Andy asks.

Castiel and Dean both turn quickly in the direction of the voice, Dean holding the bong behind his back like a child caught holding the extra cookie. Andy is standing a few metres away, still dressed in what he was wearing when Castiel saw him. He’s holding a six pack of beers in one hand, and he looks thoroughly surprised by the sight of them. 

So maybe he hasn’t been expecting them after all. He doesn’t look too distressed, though, not like Ava was.

It’s Dean that answers the question. “I think you know why we’re here, Andy,” he says, in a voice that could have been significantly less ominous while still delivering the same message. 

“You’re the demon guys,” Andy says, striding past them with confidence and depositing the beer bottles into the back of the van. “Want one?” he asks, indicating the six pack. Castiel is taken aback by the offer. Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Sure,” he says, reaching forwards to take the offered bottle, although he doesn’t remove the lid. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of Andy, as though he’s expecting him to sprout wings or something. “So, you probably know that we’re here to ask you what you know.” 

“You’re out of luck,” Andy says. “You need to leave now.”

Castiel turns to go back to the car, but Dean reaches for his arm and grabs it. “Yeah, I’m sorry but that ain’t going to happen, buddy.”

Andy’s confidence appears to falter when Dean refuses, his eyes falling on Castiel’s arm where Dean is still holding it. “Oh,” he says, slowly putting down his own unopened bottle on the edge of the van’s floor. “Who are you?” 

“Don’t you already know that?” Dean asks, letting go of Castiel. “I thought your buddy would have told you all about us.”

“What buddy?” Andy asks tersely.

“I dunno, yellow eyes, controlling personality, unhealthy obsession with finding some pal of his?” Dean asks. “He might’ve called himself a demon.”

Andy looks nervously over his shoulder. “You don’t understand, he’ll kill me.”

Dean’s expression changes, a flash of sympathy in his eyes. “Then I’m gonna assume you’re not convinced he’s one of the good guys. That’s us, by the way, we’re the good guys. Hi.” Dean offers his hand for shaking, but Andy doesn’t take it, and Dean quickly pulls it back. “You knew to look for my friend here and send him away,” he says, jerking his head in Castiel’s direction. “Did he tell you where to find him?”

“Why would I tell you that?” Andy asks, but Castiel can tell pretty easily that the answer is yes. 

Dean seems impatient with this response. He gives a sigh. “Then I’ll talk and you can give me a yes or a no. About a year ago you started noticing that people enjoyed doing what you told them to. Pretty soon with enough practice you figured out that you could make them do stuff with your mind. Around the same time you started getting dreams where Yellow Eyes asks you to go looking for a man you don’t recognise and whenever you refuse…” Dean trails off, but he makes an exploding gesture with his hands. 

Andy, for his part, remains silent with his head angled down but his eyes fixed firmly on Dean. “Who the hell are you, man?” he asks again. 

“My name’s Dean Winchester, this is Cas,” Dean says. 

Andy does not appear satisfied with this answer. “How do you know that?” he asks slowly.

“Because it’s happening to other people as well,” Dean says. “And I think you know that. You were at Lily Baker’s house the night before it burned down. You want to tell us why?”

Andy inhales sharply at the mention of Lily’s name. “Lily—is dead?” he asks, visibly alarmed.

Dean exchanges a look with Castiel. “They didn’t find her body in the house,” he says, turning back to Andy. “We were hoping you’d know where to find her. I think she’s in danger but nobody knows where she went.” 

“How do you know her?” Castiel asks, stepping forward to stand beside Dean, because he doesn’t see Andy as a threat and he’s not going to take a backseat for something as important as this, even though his feet are still itching to go back to the car. 

Andy looks at him. “Azazel’s been sending me around the country for the last six months chasing these weird miracle events. I—”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel interrupts, “Did you say—”

“—Azazel?” Dean finishes, cutting Castiel off. “Did you say his name was Azazel?”

Andy glances between the two of them, a frown on his face. “Does that mean something to you?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. 

Andy pauses. “I can make people tell me whatever I want, so looking for info’s pretty easy, although Miracle Boy’s been hard to track down,” he says cautiously. “About a month ago, Azazel told me to stop looking for the time being and instead go and talk to a list of people. They were like me, you know, with special powers. Lily can kill people with a touch, Jake was like Superman, he could lift up a truck. Ava could see the future, Max could move stuff with his mind…”

There’s immediate interest in Castiel’s eyes. Andy has met Ava. Probably in the period of time since he and Dean were in Peoria. Dean perks up as well, and Castiel wonders how many of the names are also on Dean’s trial list. 

Lily can kill people with a touch. Castiel remembers the heartbreaking sight of her girlfriend’s Facebook page, with Lily’s voice being notably absent. It must have been an accident—it happened around the time Avaand Andy were only just discovering their abilities, it must have been the same with Lily. 

“Lily Baker,” Castiel says, narrowing his eyes. “What were you doing at her house last night? Do you know where she would have gone?” Even if she didn’t know what was going to happen to her house when she left, she must know by now. The chances are that she is lying low somewhere. 

Andy looks at Castiel uneasily. “We were just talking. I showed up and introduced myself, told her who I was. Her parents didn't have a problem with letting me in to see her. She looked nervous. I don’t think she’d spoken to anybody in a while.”

That doesn’t make sense. Why would Azazel go to all the trouble of forcing Andy to find the others if he was only going to introduce himself and then leave? Castiel looks Andy over thoughtfully. “How did she react to meeting you?” he asks, folding his arms. To knowing there are other people like her. 

Andy seems apprehensive. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to answer, and Castiel wonders exactly what Azazel has done to secure his loyalty. “She hadn’t been seeing him,” Andy says at last. “When I showed up and told her what Azazel was making me do she thought it was crazy as hell. Jake was the same. Ava, though, she knew all about it. But—anyway—I left after that. She told me to get out so I took off. That’s the first and last time I ever met her, I swear. I don’t know anything about her house.”

“Right, that’s freaking fantastic,” Dean says, turning back to Castiel. “So we’ve still got no idea where to look.” He raises a hand to his face, rubbing his eyebrows. “Alright,” he continues, “This is a start, I can track her down. Andy, do you think you could write down the names of the other people on your list? I need to talk to them. Whatever he wants you guys for, it ain’t good. We’ll find a way to keep you safe until we can ice the bastard.”

Dean’s words do not inspire much confidence in Andy, who moves to sit on the back of his van. “How do I know he’s not listening to us right now?” he asks bleakly, looking up at Dean. 

Dean’s jaw tightens a little. “I don’t even know how he listens to you in the first place,” he says honestly. “It’s only ever dreams he talks to you in, right? You’ve never physically met him.”

Andy shrugs stiffly. “I guess not.”

“But how do you know that?” Dean asks, deadpan. “He could look like anyone. Whoever you see in your dreams don’t mean a thing about real life.”

This appears to make Andy uncomfortable, because he looks over his shoulder briefly, even though there’s nothing behind him except the interior of his van. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “You’re crazy, man, this whole thing’s crazy. I don’t want any part in it.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, looking at him meaningfully. He doesn’t think Andy should tell them any more, and Dean seems to understand that as well. They can figure the rest out on their own. There’s no point to any of this if learning the truth gets Andy or somebody close to him killed. 

Dean turns to Andy. “You should come with us,” he says.

“Are you serious right now?” Andy asks, seemingly unimpressed.

“I’m serious,” Dean says. “My friend and I, we do this for a living. We can take you some place safe.”

Andy doesn’t even hesitate before he shakes his head. “Nah, that’s not good enough. You don’t get it, he killed my mom.” He turns around, feeling around the back of his van until he finds a small tin box. He continues speaking while he opens it to reveal dried cannabis leaves and promptly starts rolling himself a joint. “So if you don’t mind, I’m going to get really stoned and then take my chances with Azazel until me or you or somebody can come up with a better option.”

Dean looks unhappy, but he acquiesces, and Castiel shoots him a glare. He can’t really be considering letting Andy go. Not at a time like this. They need him, obviously, but more importantly, they can’t just leave him like this. Not like they did Ava. Dean can’t be considering this.

They can’t force Andy to come, though, and if he comes willingly, there’s no knowing what Azazel will do. Not after what he did to Ava’s fiancé. Castiel swallows the lump in his throat. “Let me give you my number,” he says, reaching into his jacket for one of his fake business cards and handing it to Andy, who takes one look at it before tossing it onto the floor of his van without looking to see where it lands. He has it, at least. “If you need help—”

Andy meets his eyes while he raises a lighter to the joint and sets the tip alight, taking a long draw. He looks tired, and miserable, and desperate. “Just go back to your car and drive away,” he says, and Castiel obeys. 

* * *

“Fucking damn it,” Dean says, smacking the steering wheel with the side of his fist unhappily. 

“It’s a starting point,” Castiel mutters, trying not to think too much about Andy. It is a starting point. They at least know more about what Andy was doing last night, and there was what he’d said about the yellow-eyed demon himself, not to mention what he said he was doing with the other special children. However, the whole experience has opened more questions than it’s answered, and a couple of them need to be directed at Dean. 

“A starting point,” Dean says, grimacing and shaking his head. “Oh, sure, I can cross-reference those names he said with the names on my list and hell, we can even find Lily, but you just know she’s gonna be the same. We can’t get them to talk without getting them killed and we can’t take them with us without getting someone else killed.”

“So we go straight to Azazel, find out what he wants with them and then kill him,” Castiel says, turning to look at Dean. They’re driving back to the motel now, and Dean is behind the wheel but he is tense and unhappy, and Castiel has seen him swerve a few too many times for comfort. “We have a name now, that’s more than we did before. Do you know who he is?” he asks, still thinking about the way Dean had reacted to the name. 

“Kind of,” Dean says. “I’ve never met him, though. The name sort of translates to scapegoat, but Azazel’s a pretty well-known demon. He used to be an angel.”

“That can happen?” Castiel asks. “An angel becoming a demon?”

“Well, yeah.” Dean flexes his hands on the steering wheel and then relaxes them, sighing. “Exactly the same way a human does; thousands of years of hellfire and it eventually taints you with its filth.” He wrinkles his nose. “The biggest difference is that when you start off with that much power, that much raw energy, the demon you get at the end of it is…”

“I see,” Castiel says. He’s seen what lower-level demons that came from human souls are capable of doing after how badly Dean had been hurt in Illinois. He can only imagine what one that came from an angel must be like. 

“No more limitations,” Dean says, shaking his head. “There’s nothing holding you back. Just all that power and a need to kill.”

“But what Azazel is doing, he isn’t just doing it out of a need to kill,” Castiel says. “This is part of something bigger.”

“Yeah.” Dean is staring straight ahead, eyes on the road but obviously lost in thought. “God knows what that could be.”

Castiel is silent for a moment, contemplating everything that’s happened during the last day. He could do with a few hours of sleep.

“Andy said that he’d been searching for miracle events to lead him to the demon,” Castiel says.

“Yeah,” Dean says again. “Yeah, he did.”

“I didn’t get a chance to ask him what he meant by that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Because you stopped me.”

Dean wrings his hands on the steering wheel. “I know what you’re thinking, Cas.”

“Do you?” Castiel echoes, looking at Dean with his eyes narrowed. 

Dean’s eyes are still fixed resolutely on the road, his hands tightening on the wheel. “Go on, then, ask me.”

“Is Sam a demon?” Castiel asks.

“Yes,” Dean says, his teeth gritted. 

“Is Sam _the_ demon?” Castiel doesn’t take his eyes off of Dean. He doesn’t know what he feels. “The one Azazel is looking for.”

“Yes.” Dean’s eyes flick downwards for a moment.

“And you’ve known this how long?” 

“Since I read the spellbook in Kansas,” Dean says. “It’s why I decided to come with you.”

Castiel recalls what Dean said about the spell Leonie Schulz was using. For summoning a specific kind of demon. Evidently, a demon that came from an angel. There can’t be too many of those around. “Damn it, Dean,” he says. “This is important. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I was going to tell you before!” Dean says defensively. “And then you said to tell you tomorrow.”

“I said we should focus on the case first,” Castiel says angrily. “This is part of the case. It would have been good to know that the demon Azazel has been killing people over is in fact the same angel we’ve been looking for for months.”

“Oh, what difference does it make?” Dean asks, turning the car into the street of their motel. “It’s easier this way. It’s one less thing to look for.”

“Dean—”

“I thought you’d take off as soon as you knew what I was, okay?” Dean says. “You hate things like me, and Sam—he’s an abomination now. I can save him, but he is. I thought you’d leave if you knew.”

This brings Castiel pause. “How could you think that?” he asks, after a moment has passed. His voice is softer now, although Dean is still rigid and tense. 

“You were going to kill that baby bunyip,” Dean says suddenly, his voice lower as well.

Castiel is surprised. He hasn’t thought about that in months. Immediately, his mind goes back to what had happened in the park. He’d been knocked out. He never saw Dean kill it. “What did you do with it?”

“I took it home,” Dean says, turning into the motel. 

“You took it—to Australia?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “And I’d do it again.”

“It killed people, Dean.”

“Sam’s killed people,” Dean says. “Shit, I’ve killed people. I’ve killed people that didn’t deserve to die and I’ve stood back and watched others die that I could’ve saved just by thinking it. And I—I can tell myself I was just following orders but that don’t mean shit. So I’m sorry, Cas, I am. I didn’t want you to know my brother was a monster. I didn’t want you to know I was a monster.”

Dean stops the car in the parking space in front of their room, but neither of them move to get out immediately. “You’re not a monster, Dean,” Castiel says matter-of-factly. 

“Sure I am,” Dean says, killing the engine. “If you knew me you’d want to put a knife through my throat.”

Dean gets out of the car before Castiel has a chance to reply, and Castiel exhales a little harder than normal before doing the same. It looks like Dean is right about the not caring thing. He has a lot to think over now. He doubts he’ll be getting much sleep tonight, but it’s past midnight now and they’re working a case, so he needs to get a couple of hours in before dawn. He follows Dean into their room, sees him sitting down at the table again with the two computers, and he shuts the door behind him. 

“I do know you, Dean,” he says. 

Sitting at the table, Dean raises his head and opens his mouth to answer but Castiel shushes him. “I mean it. I know what you think of yourself, but I know you, and you’re not capable of making me hate you. I see your guilt, your anger, but you’re not a monster.”

“That’s just your problem,” Dean says, not unkindly. “You’ve got to get past sorting people into Monster and Not Monster. Hell, you’re no angel, Cas. We’re all monsters, we’re just killing the ones we don’t like.”

Castiel approaches the table where Dean is sitting, taking a seat next to him, his eyes falling on the computer screen. Today is Monday; he wonders if Dean is going to publish a new episode of his show. He doesn’t pay it much mind right now. “I’ll tell you what I do know,” he says. “Sam isn’t evil, and neither are you. If you really believed I’d think otherwise then it’s a failure on my part. I’m sorry.”

Dean closes his computer half way, staring downwards. “You don’t have to be sorry. You just keep surprising me, is all.”

Castiel rests his hand on the table, lowering his head so he can meet Dean’s eyes. After a moment, he reaches forward and closes Dean’s computer the rest of the way, pushing it away from him. “We should talk about this tomorrow,” he says.

“See, you said that earlier and then got pissed at me,” Dean says.

“If there’s anything more you need to tell me that’s bigger than this, I’m going to need at least three hours of sleep and a very strong drink before I hear it,” Castiel says. 

“Fine,” Dean says. “But afterwards, we’re not having any more moments for at least a month.”

Castiel grunts his approval, then tentative leans his head towards Dean, tilting it slightly as their lips brush together. His hand on the table moves to cover Dean’s. 

This time, it only takes Dean a moment to react. He closes his eyes while Castiel deepens the kiss, and it feels like a victory. He reaches up with his other hand to touch Dean’s face, his fingers curling around Dean’s hand as he does so. 

Castiel has thought about this a lot over the last few months, and it’s nice but it’s not perfect. He wishes he were in a better state of mind, but for some reason this only seems to happen when they’re on a sensitive topic, when they’re at their most vulnerable. Dean’s hands are just moving to touch his chest when he finally finds it in himself to say something. “Can I do this again tomorrow as well?” he mumbles against Dean’s lips. 

“You can do this whenever you want,” Dean replies, barely audible. “Just don’t talk about it.”

“Right,” Castiel murmurs. There is no argument to be found there from him. He kisses Dean again, the tips of his fingers brushing through his hair while his lips move to gently kiss the corner of Dean’s mouth, down to his jawline. There is a light covering of stubble on Dean’s face and it brushes against Castiel’s own. He has never seen Dean shave, but it never seems to get any longer. Castiel suspects that if he were to shave it off, it wouldn’t grow back. 

Dean surprises Castiel when both of his hands come up to grab his face, mimicking his own gesture. It’s clumsy at first, but Dean quickly relaxes, leaving a palm resting against Castiel’s cheek while the other drops to his shoulder, and Castiel can’t help but find it endearing, even when Dean grabs a handful of his hair. His movements are cautious, careful, but gentle, and Castiel wishes he would stop holding back. God knows Dean has earned at least that. 

And then Dean is pulling away, and the moment is over, and Castiel is left slightly dazed in his chair while Dean gets hastily to his feet. Castiel sighs. His hair is tousled and messy and he can still feel the way Dean’s lips feel. “I owe you an apology,” he says.

“Sure as hell don’t,” Dean says, turning around again to face him. He doesn’t seem angry or upset but he does seem nervous and with Dean, that is a huge statement in and of itself. “You should go to bed, though.”

Castiel sighs again, smiling to himself. Still watching out for him, as always. _My guardian angel_ , he thinks wryly. “Come with me?” he says, more of a question than anything else.

Dean looks conflicted. “I don’t sleep,” he replies, although he is clearly unsure if that’s what Castiel is suggesting. 

“I do,” Castiel says. “You’re tired, Dean, I can tell. Just take a night off.” Dean has been working through the night every single night for months, probably years, all while determinedly avoiding Castiel’s notice and concealing his identity, not to mention having to live with the weight of everything that is happening to him. Castiel may not know a lot about angels, but he can’t imagine them being built for that type of stress. “You’ve done enough for one night.”

Dean swallows. “Cas, I can’t—”

“Not like that,” Castiel says, already sensing what he’s thinking. “Like Montana.” 

“Montana,” Dean repeats, relaxing a little. “That was awkward.”

“It won’t be awkward,” Castiel says, kicking off his shoes. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“Now you’re just being an ass,” Dean says, although he shrugs his jacket off anyway. 

“My apologies.” Castiel folds his trench coat loosely and deposits it on the table next to Dean’s laptop while he stands. Dean lets himself be led by Castiel in the direction of the bed, and the two of them lay down in it. Unlike Montana, it’s a single. On hindsight, Castiel should have thought about that sooner, but it doesn’t matter now. He doesn’t care, and neither does Dean.

The two of them are facing each other, Dean a few inches further down the mattress than Castiel so that his forehead is just brushing Castiel’s chin, and when Castiel’s arm wraps around him, he’s totally relaxed. 

It’s nice. Castiel watches Dean’s eyes slowly close, although Castiel knows he’s not even remotely close to sleeping. He can already feel himself getting drowsy. He gets so little sleep, he rarely has trouble with it when he does. Dean’s hair is just tickling his nose, and he gets that ozone smell again. Without really thinking about it, he raises the arm around Dean’s back so that his hand is cradling the back of his head. 

Dean does not try to move, nor does he give any indication that he wants to. His breathing is light and even, and if Castiel didn’t know any better he probably would have assumed that he was sleeping. He doesn’t say goodnight, he doesn’t say anything at all. There is no need to. 

* * *

When Castiel finally rouses, the first thing he becomes aware of is that Dean is still at his side. 

Their positions have changed somewhat throughout the night. Castiel’s leg is sticking uncomfortably over the side of the mattress and most of the blanket is now perpendicular to the bed down around their knees. Dean is sprawled on Castiel’s chest, eyes still closed, although they open a second later when he realises Castiel is awake. He raises his head, and the two look at each other. 

“Good morning,” Castiel says. 

Dean reaches for his face, touching his cheek and kissing him. 

Neither of them moves, although Castiel closes his eyes again, revelling in the gentle motions of their lips moving together. It’s chaste at first, but Dean quickly parts his lips and Castiel responds, his hand sliding up Dean’s back, hitching the bottom of his shirt up as he does so and feeling smooth skin beneath it. Dean shifts himself further up the bed so that he’s straddling Castiel’s thighs, taking his face in both hands and kissing him for all he’s worth. 

There is no desperation there this time, only simple desire, and Castiel wants to drink it in. There’s more experience behind Dean’s movements this time, and Castiel lets him lead, knowing he wants this. Dean’s kisses are experimental, testing both their boundaries, and Castiel’s hands move to Dean’s waist, his hips, doing the same. 

When Castiel feels Dean pull back slightly, he opens his eyes, still feeling the man’s warm breath on his cheek. Their faces are still almost touching, and Dean is looking down at him questioningly, his face flushed in such a way that makes his freckles stand out. He is beautiful. 

“Good morning,” Dean replies at last. 

“It is,” Castiel agrees, letting Dean’s shirt go, although he leaves his hand on his back. “I was about to suggest doing it more often.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it,” Dean says.

Castiel kisses him again. “I’ll suggest it another way.”

Dean rolls off of him, and Castiel sits up in bed. He’s wide awake now, and if he’s being honest, he feels great. It’s the best sleep he’s had in a long time. Since Montana, actually. “What time is it?” he asks, looking up at Dean who is standing next to the bed, absentmindedly smoothing his clothes. 

“Dunno,” Dean says, casting his eyes around for a clock. “Seven?”

Castiel grabs his phone from the night table, realising he forgot to charge it last night. The battery is low. “Six thirty,” he says, grabbing his charger and plugging it in. Swinging his legs off the side of the bed, he stretches. He slept in his jeans last night, which isn’t the most comfortable way to go. “I’ll grab something to eat while you get started on Lily?”

“Yeah, hold on,” Dean says, in the process of tying his shoelaces. “I already found Lily, she used her parents’ credit card to check into a hotel on the other side of town yesterday.”

“When did you find that?”

Dean looks sheepish. “Last night,” he says. “Before you say anything, it only took me half an hour and you were fast asleep.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, shaking his head. Dean can’t relax. Well, neither can he, but he does still require sleep to stay sharp. “Alright, we’ll go there this morning. I’ll get some food on the way.” 

“What are we even going to say to her?” Dean asks. “Andy said she didn’t know anything about Azazel or Sam.”

“That’s another thing,” Castiel says. “Andy said a couple of the people he’d visited didn’t know anything. Why would Azazel only be forcing some of them into helping?”

“Depends what he wants them for,” Dean reasons. “He’s got to have a reason beyond finding Sam. Once he’s found him he’ll have a phase two to move on to. Lily kills things when she touches them. The other guy, Jake, Andy said he was strong. Maybe those skills just aren’t useful to Azazel yet, so he’s letting them stew for a while.”

“What I want to know,” Castiel says, “Is whether Azazel did something to these people to make them special, or if he just found them and took advantage of them.”

“Maybe it’s both,” Dean says. “He finds the best of human kind, and he makes them better. But they have too much in common. Their parents were all witches, far as we can tell. They all lived in the same place at the same time. Maybe they made some kind of deal. Offered their children to the forces of evil.”

“Dean.” Castiel looks at him, appalled. 

“What?” Dean asks. “People are like that. They’ll do anything. Abraham was going to kill Isaac just because God told him to. Azazel was their higher power.”

Castiel straightens up. “But why Lawrence?” he asks. “Why there?”

Dean is silent for a long time. “That’s where Sam came out of Hell,” he says.

It takes a moment for Castiel to register what Dean has said. “Excuse me?”

“Sam’s a demon, he’s been in hell for centuries,” Dean says. “He’s one of the most powerful demons in creation. When he popped the box, Lawrence was where he came up, and that amount of power, the place got _flooded_ with demonic omens. Weird weather patterns, animals behaving strange, you name it. It attracted the attention of Heaven, Hell, hunters, the whole package.”

Castiel sits back on the bed. This is it, the full story. “Alright,” he says. “Why was he in Hell in the first place?” He has to ask. He needs to understand why. He knows that Sam rebelled, but there has to be more to it than that. 

Dean pauses. “Alright,” he begins. “Up in Heaven, I’m kind of like Michael’s right hand. A long time ago, before the whole thing with Eden went down, Sam was Lucifer’s.”

“Lucifer?” That’s not something Castiel was expecting, although he tries not to show his surprise. 

“Yeah,” Dean says with a slow nod. “That Lucifer. He was once God’s favourite. The brightest angel in Heaven. After the corruption of humanity, he was cast down into the pit. Not like Sam or Azazel were, though. Michael didn’t want to see him become a demon. Instead he just locked him up in a cage, where he would be trapped for all eternity. The whole of Hell as it is today practically built itself around him, but he stayed stuck in there, and he’ll stay there until the Apocalypse comes to pass.”

“The Apocalypse,” Castiel repeats, shaking his head. So not only is the Devil real, but so is the foretold end of the world as they know it. “Right, go on.”

Dean hasn’t moved, although his eyes are fixed on Castiel. “Anyway, I guess you can imagine nobody really trusted Sam after that. It was just a job, but most angels didn’t see it that way. They gave him a hard time, thought he was going to be another traitor. I was the only angel who would speak to him.” The faintest traces of a smile cross Dean’s lips. “We had about four millennia before the Messiah came and in that time our work mostly consisted of guarding souls and watching over humanity. It was good times, you know, me and him. Heaven was at peace, we didn’t have a lot to worry about.”

This is the part of the story where things start to get a lot worse. At this point, Castiel doesn’t even question Dean’s casual mention of the coming of the Messiah. “What happened?” he asks, looking up at Dean who has turned away, staring ahead at nothing or perhaps things long gone. 

Dean glances back in his direction. “The Crucifixion happened,” he says. “The Crusades happened. The witch trials, the wars, more and more people started killing each other and dying in the name of God. Sam always hated watching people die when we could’ve saved them but, I don’t know, something in him just snapped. So he rebelled, headed down to Earth and started healing people left, right and centre. The folks down there at the time thought he was the Second Coming. I mean, people were travelling from all over the world to meet him.” Dean makes a dry sound that might be a laugh. “He was such an idiot, my brother.”

“His second coming never went down in history,” Castiel says, already sensing where this is going. 

“That’s because Michael went after him.” Dean is staring down at his hands. He looks paler than Castiel has ever seen him. “He wasn’t hard to find; he was practically famous. You haven’t seen Michael when he’s pissed, he just…” Dean shudders. “He killed so many people. Smote entire towns where Sam had visited and took the memories of others. Made sure nobody was going to remember him.” He sighs. “Sam had rebelled. It didn’t matter how many lives he’d saved, he was messing with God’s plan, and after Lucifer, Michael was just never the same. So he sent Sam into Hell, and Hell was Hell by then. That was the last time I ever saw him.”

Suddenly, Castiel understands why Dean thinks Sam would believe he’s out to get him. Dean was there at Michael’s side when Sam was cast down. A horrible feeling settles in Castiel, not unlike nausea. “Did you help him?” he asks softly.

Dean can’t bring himself to look at him, and Castiel’s heart sinks. “You helped Michael kill all those people,” he says. It’s not an accusation, or a shout, it’s simply a statement, and when Dean turns away again, it’s the only answer Castiel needs.

“I told you I was a monster,” he says stiffly. 

“Dean…” Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He gets to his feet, heading over to Dean and halting just behind him. 

Dean clears his throat. “Anyway, five hundred years or so later it’s 1983 and suddenly there’s talk about Sam leaving Hell as a demon. Michael had calmed down enough to not go psycho over it and decided it was time to finish the job. He gave me the task of bringing him home for his final punishment because I knew him better than anyone. I headed down to Earth, had no idea what I’d find, and found a string of miraculous healings in Lawrence and I just, I knew. Sam must have gotten word that I was in town because he made a break for it. I told Heaven I’d spoken to him and that he was headed back to Hell, and I’ve been up here looking for him ever since. Five years ago I had this great idea to get a message out to him without drawing attention to myself and then you showed up.”

So that’s it. The whole story, and it fits so well with what Castiel already knew that he could almost have figured it out for himself. 

He can’t think about that right now, though. Dean’s back is still turned to him, his eyes cast down in shame, and Castiel reaches for him, touching Dean’s arm just below the shoulder. “Dean, look at me.”

Dean is stiff, but he turns, sharp green eyes meeting Castiel’s blue ones. “It’s always been about Sam,” he says, echoing Virgil’s words from last night. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Castiel says.

Dean pulls his arm away from him. “Bullshit,” he says. “Sam left, I wasn’t brave enough to, so just don’t okay? Don’t. I’m not going to hear it from you. The people I killed don’t give two craps whose fault it was, it was me that killed them.”

“Damn it, Dean.” Castiel doesn’t attempt to touch him again, but he stands his ground. “What would have happened if you said no? You’d be standing here with black eyes and Michael would be coming after you himself. Everything isn’t your responsibility.”

There is a hint of desperation on Dean’s face. “My responsibility is Sam. And when he sees me, he won’t want anything to do with me. Those are the facts, Cas. Nothing else matters.”

Castiel rubs his forehead briefly. Dean truly believes that, and maybe he’s right, but he knows that sooner or later, they will find Sam. They’ll talk to him, and once Sam gets to see Dean the way he is now, it will be better. Castiel doesn’t know Sam, but he does know Dean, and Dean is a hard person to walk away from. 

He wonders if Sam ever did find _Supernatural_. If he figured out who it was, and what it meant, or if Dean’s years of work have all been for nothing. If he had, he would have sought Dean out by now. Castiel feels deep down that he didn’t, but that doesn’t make the show a waste. It brought Castiel to him, after all. It brought a little boy to Dean for help, and in the end, that is what started them on this whole mission. 

“Of course it matters,” he says at last, tentatively reaching for his shoulder again and squeezing it gently. “You’re not a machine, Dean.”

Dean raises his eyes from the ground to look at him.

“I lost my brother, alright?” Castiel says. “I was late picking him up from school and it got him killed. I’m never going to see him again. There’s no way I can fix what happened, but you can, and I think you know that, otherwise you wouldn’t even be trying.”

Dean heaves a sigh, eyes falling on Castiel’s hand. “After I’ve found Sam, once I know he’s safe, I’m not going back home.”

“Where will you go?” 

“No idea,” Dean says. “But I’m sick of being Michael’s bitch.”

Castiel can’t argue with that. 

“I used to think the world of the guy, you know,” Dean adds suddenly, although Castiel didn’t ask him to. “He was like—I mean, with God gone, that’s who he was. He was everything. Each angel’s got a role to play, and that was mine—and I was good at it, I was. I was a good soldier. I never had any doubts about it…” Dean shakes his head stiffly. “That’s all gone now. I’d gank the son of a bitch right now—or stick him in the cage with Lucifer.”

Castiel remains silent for a moment, eyes fixed on Dean as the man tells him things he hasn’t told anyone else. He wishes there were more he could do to help, but he gets the feeling that Dean wouldn’t appreciate any words of kindness or consolidation right now. He needs action. He needs to be doing something, and if there’s anything Castiel can relate to, it is that.

So he gives Dean’s shoulder a squeeze. “Let’s find Sam,” he says, and Dean grunts out his agreement. 

* * *

They set out for the hotel shortly after, grabbing some drive-through burgers on the way which Castiel promptly eats. The place doesn’t seem busy when they get there. It’s not much of a step up from the motels Castiel and Dean normally stay in, and they drive around the back to the parking lot.

Dean casts his eyes around the lobby when they enter. “Give me five minutes,” he says, clapping Castiel’s shoulder before he vanishes, making him start. Castiel quickly glances over at the reception desk, but nobody appears to have noticed Dean disappear. 

He can’t help but think that maybe this is a bad idea. They haven’t done Ava or Andy any good by talking to them, and there’s no reason to think that Lily will be any different, but after her parents, sooner or later Azazel is going to make himself known to her and surely it will be better for her to hear about it from them first. 

He takes a seat in one of the chairs in the waiting area, his face in his hands, and it’s less than a minute before he recognises the sound that he now knows is Dean’s wings. He glances up.

“She’s here,” Dean says. “Room sixty-six.”

“Good.” Castiel gets to his feet, looking in the direction of the elevators. 

“Now, hold on,” Dean says. “There’s more. The room’s warded against angels from the inside.”

That’s surprising. “She knows we’re coming?”

“I don’t think so,” Dean says. “It’s invisible ink. More likely Azazel knows we’re coming and doesn’t want us talking to her.”

“Oh.” Castiel pauses. “Then perhaps we shouldn’t.” He doesn’t like the idea of playing by Azazel’s rules, but for the time being it’s their only option. There are lives at stake. 

“Well, either way, I can’t,” Dean says. “I can’t see or hear anything from inside, either. But listen, Cas, we know Azazel’s been here within the last twenty-four hours. He’s close. This might be our chance to confront him.”

“Do you think we’re ready for that?” Castiel asks. “We are on his turf, after all. If it comes down to a fight it should be under our own terms.”

“What choice do we have?” Dean asks. 

Castiel turns to the elevator again, his hand reaching into his coat and touching Virgil’s angel blade. “Will this work on him?” he asks, taking it out far enough for Dean to see the handle.

Dean’s expression darkens. “Yeah,” he says. “It works on everything except archangels.”

Castiel tucks the blade back into his coat, feeling its unfamiliar weight. “If things go pear-shaped, can you get us out of here quickly?” he asks, looking at Dean.

“Yes. So long as you’re not in the room itself, yeah. We have an extraction plan.” 

“Good,” Castiel says. “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

Castiel doesn’t believe that for a second, and neither does Dean, but they’ve both already decided to keep going, so they head for the elevator, get in, and press the button for the sixth floor. Neither of them says another word.

At level two, the doors open and a woman pushing a room service trolley gets in, halting on Castiel’s other side. Castiel notices Dean stiffen, and his eyes quickly move back to her when the lift doors close. 

Like clockwork, her eyes turn black.

Castiel finds himself hurled against the closed doors before he even has a chance to draw his blade. The air is knocked out of him when he hits the surface, the long shape of the blade in his coat digging into his chest. He gasps, winded, and behind him, Dean is already moving to get around the trolley, which stands between him and the demon; he manages to leap over it like a hurdle as if he weighs nothing. The woman is waiting for him on the other side, seizing Dean’s arm and twisting it around so that he is pushed back against the elevator wall.

Dean throws her off of him a second later, and she hits the doors a few feet from where Castiel is getting to his feet, his blade now in hand. He remembers what Dean said; black eyed demons are usually the weakest. With an angry curl of his lips, Castiel draws the knife back, ready to drive it into her chest.

“No, wait.” Before Castiel has time to process it, Dean has grabbed the demon by her shoulder, pushing her body against the doors again, and his other hand slams against her forehead. White light spills briefly from her eyes and mouth before her whole body goes slack. The doors open with a ding, and she slumps unconscious onto the floor of level six.

The whole thing is over in a matter of seconds. Castiel stands disorientated for an instant before he takes a step back and looks at Dean. “Is she dead?” he asks.

Dean quickly drags the woman’s body back into the lift. “Demons need to possess a human in order to have a physical form,” he says, leaning over the body to check for vitals. “Using the blade kills the host. Smiting just kills the demon. She’ll be fine,” Dean says, pressing two of his fingers to her forehead. “Won’t remember any of this, though.”

Castiel slowly nods his approval. If he’s honest, he hasn’t given that much thought, but it makes sense. “I think it’s reasonable to assume you were right about Azazel not wanting us around.”

The two of them step out onto level six, and Castiel looks down the hallway for Lily’s room. He spots it just as Dean points in its direction. 

“Scream loudly if you need help,” Dean says, and for the first time since arriving, Castiel realises he looks anxious. There is no sign of more demons on this floor, but Dean will not be able to enter room sixty-six if necessary.

Castiel puts his blade back into his coat, his eyes not wavering from the door. “She’s just a girl, Dean,” he says. “I’ll be fine.”

He starts down the hallway, not looking back at Dean. Lily has put the ‘do not disturb’ sign on her doorknob, but Castiel knocks anyway, suddenly realising he doesn’t have any way of getting in.

For several seconds there is no answer, but then he hears a scuffling sound followed by footsteps, and the door opens a crack. Castiel notices the chain lock is also in place. 

Lily is a tall woman with straight, blonde hair and a strong jawline. In most of the photographs Castiel has seen of her she has been smiling, happy, but now, her eyes are sunken and red with tears and she wears a large, black jacket that covers most of her skin with her hands encased in gloves. She regards Castiel with suspicion. “Hello?” she asks tersely. 

“Lily Baker?” he asks, although he already knows who she is. She gives a nod a moment later. “It’s okay, I’m not here to hurt you. My name is Castiel, I was hoping I could have a word with you.”

At this, she shuts the door immediately, and Castiel casts a look down the hallway at Dean, who is still hovering near the lifts. He’s about to try saying more, but then he hears the chain being removed, and the door opens a little more. “Who are you?” Lily asks.

Castiel makes no attempt to enter the room. “I’m a…professional,” he says. “I know it sounds crazy but I’ve met people like you before, I think I might be able to help you.”

“Are you with that other guy?” Lily’s voice is low in volume but she sounds angry, suspicious. “I told him to leave me alone, I’m not—”

“No, I’m not with him,” Castiel interjects, knowing she means Andy. “Listen to me, I know you have no reason to trust me but your life might depend on this. Your name is Lily Baker, about a year ago you started displaying unusual abilities. They’ve been getting stronger ever since.”

“That’s what Andy said.” Lily folds her arms. It looks more like she’s hugging herself. “And then he went into something about demons.”

Castiel has thought this conversation through a lot, but right now he is lost for words. “It’s true, Lily, it’s all true.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lily snaps. “I kind of figured that out myself when I turned on the news yesterday.” She raises the back of her hand to her face, as if she is about to start crying, and Castiel feels a rush of sadness. She knows her parents are dead. “Are you here to take me away, then?” she demands. “Because I’m a freak?”

“No, of course not,” Castiel says without hesitating. “None of this is your fault. But the demon who killed your parents will be coming for you next. We need to get you out of here. Some place safe.”

Lily looks nervous. There’s even a hint of fear in her eyes, and something else, too. Apprehension, unease. Castiel wonders if she knows something he doesn’t. “The demon,” she says. “What does it want from me?”

Castiel wasn’t prepared for her to accept his truth so readily, but he answers honestly. “I don’t know,” he says. “But Andy, and the others, he’s making them look for somebody. He’s making them do bad things in order to do it.”

Slowly, Lily nods. “Okay,” she says. She inhales shakily. “Just let me get my stuff, and then we’ll talk properly.”

Without waiting, she turns back into her room, leaving the door wide open, and Castiel sees her throwing things on her bed back into her bag. Cautiously, he enters the room behind her, casting his eyes around. He can’t see the warding. He’ll need a special light to reveal it if he wants to allow Dean to enter, but by the looks of things that won’t be necessary. 

This whole thing feels too easy, though. It’s unsettling. With a frown, he peers into the room’s en suite while he waits for Lily to finish packing. Nothing out of the ordinary. He leaves the bathroom again, casting his eyes around again and looking at the door opening out to the hallway.

It’s still slightly ajar. The handle is oblong rather than a knob, and Castiel’s frown deepens when he realises there is something on it. Some kind of yellow residue. He touches two fingers to it, raising them to his nose and sniffing. 

Then he spins around abruptly, his hand reaching out and catching Lily’s wrist just as she reaches for the back of his neck. 

The two stare at each other for several seconds. The glove on Lily’s right hand is gone now, and Castiel’s hand only separated from her skin by the fabric of her jacket, and it hasn’t escaped him that it’s only through luck that he is still alive right now. Lily, for her part, doesn’t look malicious. She looks like Ava did—afraid. “What did he do?” Castiel asks her, eyes falling on her other hand. Fortunately, it is still gloved. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I have to.”

“Whatever you’re scared of, I can help,” Castiel says, holding her gaze and trying to calm her. “I know you don’t want this. If you have loved ones we can get them somewhere safe, where he can’t hurt them.”

“You don’t understand,” Lily says, her voice almost pleading. “He’ll bring my parents back if I get rid of you.”

“Is that what he promised you?” Castiel asks. He doesn’t even know if that’s possible, but even if it is, he knows Azazel will never do that. He killed Ava’s fiancé because he was a distraction. He doubts he considers Lily’s parents, or her girlfriend, anything less. “Because he’s lying, Lily, I’m sorry.”

Lily tears her wrist out of his grip, and Castiel lets go like it is red hot. “You don’t know that,” she says fiercely.

“Yes, I do,” Castiel says gently. “He needs you for something. He won’t allow anything that will…distract you.”

For a moment, it looks as though Lily is about to slap him, but she doesn’t. She hangs back. Castiel knows he’s being insensitive, but he’s not going to bullshit around the truth. She deserves more than that. 

“What do you know about what he needs?” Lily asks. 

Castiel wishes he has more of an answer to give her. “Soldiers,” he says at last, and it’s a wild guess but it’s the only one he has, and the only one that makes sense. “People to do things that demons can’t.” 

Lily rubs her face, shaking her head slowly. “I was meant to kill Andy,” she says slowly. “When he came over to my house, I was supposed to kill him.”

Castiel isn’t expecting that. Suddenly, it all makes sense. Lily disobeyed, and Azazel destroyed her home in punishment only hours later. It was only a coincidence that Castiel and Dean were there at the time. By the looks of things, Azazel is no longer interested in enlisting their help like he tried to do with Ava. Now he just wants them out of the way.

He must know that Dean is Sam’s brother, though. Maybe it’s just Castiel he wants out of the way. 

But why Andy? Andy is one of the special children, why get rid of him without a reason for it? Unless it isn’t about Andy. Maybe it’s about Lily, about training her to kill. 

Castiel probably shouldn’t be worrying about that right now, though. Lily is still, apparently, intent on killing him, although her fragile confidence is faltering. He just needs to get them both out of the hotel room, where they will be on equal footing. Lily’s powers won’t work on Dean—at least, he hopes not, since Andy’s didn’t. 

He holds his hands out in a nonthreatening gesture as he takes a step closer to her, hand on the edge of the door. “You don’t have to kill anyone, Lily, I promise,” he says, holding her gaze, and he means it. They will fix this. Even if there are other demons working for Azazel, he is clearly the orchestrator. If they kill him then Lily and the others will be safe, and they can figure out how to cure them safely. “My friend and I are hunting the demon that’s doing this to you and we’re going to put a stop to all of it, but I need your help. If there’s anything more you can tell me—”

A sound from somewhere behind him interrupts his thoughts, and both his and Lily’s heads turn. It sounds like a thump, from out in the hallway, and a moment later he here’s a brief high-pitched noise. _Dean_. Shit, there must be more demons. He turns back to Lily. 

She is still hanging back, holding her arms close to herself. “You couldn’t kill Andy,” he says. “I know you don’t want this.”

“There are demons in this building,” she says, putting her glove back on. “They’ve been watching me since I got here. There were more around my house as well, keeping tabs on me.”

“How many?” Castiel asks, giving Lily space as she comes to his side and shuts the door. 

“I don’t know,” she says. “At least six.”

“And Azazel, is he one of them?”

“I’ve never seen Azazel here,” Lily says. “At least not that I know.I only started seeing him a month ago and he only talks to me in my sleep.”

The same as the others, Castiel thinks, although Azazel waited longer to reveal himself to Lily. “Can you remember what he looks like?” he asks. 

“No,” Lily says, and they hear another thud. “He looks different every time, but his eyes are always the same.”

“So I’ve heard.” Castiel tentatively puts a hand on her shoulder, and she jumps. “Listen to me, I need to go out there, but once the demons are gone we’ll get you out of here. Just wait here until I tell you it’s safe to come out.”

It’s the voice he uses on most civilians to try and keep them calm, but Lily does not look calmed, and he doesn’t blame her in the slightest. She narrows her eyes and steps back, away from him, and Castiel doesn’t wait around. He ducks out of the room again, already pulling his angel blade from his jacket. 

The body of a man in a suit is passed out on the floor next to the room, and another is further down the hallway, slumped against the door. Dean himself is up the far end, backed against the wall with two more demons blocking his escape. Castiel has already started towards Dean when he notices him come out, a faint grin appearing on his face seconds before Castiel grabs the closer one from behind, holding his blade to its throat, which gives Dean the moment he needs to press his hand to the demon’s forehead, smiting it in less than a second before he grabs the other, who has been going for Castiel’s blade. 

Castiel was expecting him to simply kill this one as well, but instead he turns it around and shoves it against the wall Dean was just backed into. The demon, wearing the body of a scrawny man in a cap who was probably a guest, struggles briefly before accepting the futility and going still. “Information,” Dean says matter-of-factly. “Is that all of them?”

Castiel hastily spins around. There are three bodies in the hallway, plus one in the lift and the demon Dean is still restraining through sheer strength. “Probably not,” he says. Lily seems to think there would be at least one more, but given the fate that befell the others, Castiel would not have blamed it for fleeing. “Are you alright?” he asks, remembering the sound of Dean’s injury. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, and Castiel notices him shift his jacket slightly. “I had the whole thing completely under control. Didn’t even need you to step in. Where’s Lily?” he asks.

Castiel decides not to comment on the fact that Dean was backed into a corner. “Still in her room,” he says. “I told her to wait until we’d gotten rid of the demons. She tried to kill me,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

“Then don’t tell her to wait next time,” Dean says, suddenly becoming aware of the multitude of concerned faces emerging from the other doors along the corridor. Glancing at Castiel for a second, he clears his throat, reaching into his jacket. “Excuse me, ladies and gentleman, there’s absolutely nothing to worry about here,” he says, holding up his FBI badge and walking up the hallway, casually tapping the foreheads of each person who came to investigate the noise as he goes. The demon he had been restraining remains pinned to the wall by an unseen force. “This is a training exercise, there’s nothing to see here. You’ve all performed admirably, go take a break. Thank you for your time,” he rattles off, as one by one the people turn to go back into their rooms. Castiel narrows his eyes disapprovingly, but Dean ignores him, stopping at the end of the row outside Lily’s door. 

“Son of a bitch,” he says, looking inside.

That doesn’t sound good. Castiel runs to join him, stepping over the body heading straight to the door of the room. “Lily?” he calls.

It’s useless, of course. The room is empty, Lily’s bag still half-packed on the bed. 

“This door is the only exit,” Castiel says, turning back to Dean. “We’re six floors up, she can’t have left through the window.”

Dean doesn’t answer, although his hand absentmindedly comes up, pointing in the general direction of the last demon and strengthening the invisible bonds holding him in place. “She must have slipped past us while we were distracted.”

“Oh,” Lily’s voice says, from somewhere behind them both, “Yes, I think you could say that she did. 

Castiel quickly spins in the direction of the voice. Lily is standing a few feet in front of the elevator, her arms no longer folded. It’s immediately obvious upon looking at her that something is wrong. Her stance is different. She no longer folds in on herself to make herself smaller, to reduce the chance of an accidental touch. Now, she stands confidently, her head held high, but it’s not her stance that draw’s Castiel’s attention. As he watches, even from a distance, he can see her eyes flash a pale yellow. 

Castiel’s first act is to tighten his grip on his blade and step forwards, putting himself in front of Dean as he does so. “You—”

Lily sighs, flicking her hand once and sending Castiel flying into the wall to his right. “What, are you going to kill me?” she asks. 

Castiel already knows he can’t. Not while he is possessing somebody, least of all Lily, the very person he is trying to save. More importantly, he knows that as well.

On his left, Dean has not moved, but his hand tightens on the hilt of his blade. “Azazel,” he said curtly. 

Castiel notices the demon they had captured slip down from his place against the wall, and black smoke suddenly pours from the man’s mouth in a rush, streaming past Dean and Castiel in a cloud before escaping out the window. Azazel watches it leave while the demon’s host slumps, unconscious. 

“Better,” Azazel says, yellow eyes turning hazel again as they follow Dean, who made no attempt to stop the other demon escaping. “You didn’t need him anyway, he doesn’t know anything. I think it’s time you and I had a talk.” He strides over to Dean, passing Castiel and stopping a foot in front of the angel. “I have to say, I was surprised when I heard that Heaven was sending you, of all angels. You’ve always had a soft spot for Samuel. I thought they wanted him dead.”

Castiel realises he can move, gathering his senses as he glances down at the blade in his hand. Azazel probably figured that restraining him wouldn’t be worth the effort. He looks at Dean, half expecting some hidden signal telling him the best course of action, but Dean is still staring unwaveringly at the demon before him. 

“What do you want with my brother, asshole?” Dean asks flatly, his nose wrinkled distastefully.

At this, Azazel tilts Lily’s head as if there is something fascinating about Dean. “What do you think?” he asks. “I plan to bring him home, where he belongs. I expect my father will be eager to see him when he gets out.”

“You mean Lucifer,” Dean says, lowering his voice in shock. “Lucifer’s been in the cage for six thousand years.”

“I know,” Azazel says coldly. “And it’s time for that to change.”

“You’re going after the seals,” Dean says, realisation dawning on his face. 

A cruel smile slowly creeps across Azazel’s face. “You’re a sharp one, Nahaliel, Lucifer doesn’t give you enough credit.” 

“Why tell me?”

“What are you going to do?” he asks flatly. “You can’t go back to Heaven. They’re not going to stop us even if you do.” 

“No,” Dean says, his eyes flicking up to meet Castiel’s briefly. “There’s more to it. Lily, and the others, why bother with a bunch of humans?” 

“I suppose I’m expected to just tell you that.” Azazel shakes his head, clearly finding something about it funny. “Surely it’s obvious. There’s a war coming, and wars need soldiers. Not demons, any old tax accountant can be a demon. I’m looking for something _special_ ,” he says, laying emphasis on the final word. “Demons just don’t have that…spark.” Lily snaps her fingers. “That creativity. But a human, with the right tutoring? They’re capable of anything.”

So Castiel wasn’t too far off with his guess of soldiers. Azazel wants Lily to learn to kill. Perhaps some of the special children have already been practicing. He never did find out the exact nature of the things he had been making Ava do. The fact that Azazel sent Andy to be killed though is even more disturbing.  

Castiel stares at the back of Lily’s head, eyes falling down to the blade still clutched in his hand, and knows that this is might be his only opportunity. Azazel is too powerful for Dean to smite; it has to be this way, with the knife. He almost seems to be egging him on; he has not turned to look at him since he passed him by. Castiel still doesn’t move. 

“Alright,” Dean says. “I’ve got to say, I’m impressed, but here’s the thing.” He flips his angel blade around in his hand, looking down at it absentmindedly. “You could have killed me like eight times by now, and I’m starting to think the reason you haven’t is the same reason you didn’t try in Illinois. You’ve got no idea where Sam is and neither does your band of misfits. So either, you seriously like the sound of your own voice—which isn’t even yours, by the way—or you want to ask me for help.”

Azazel narrows his eyes. “Go on, then, say it.”

“Not in a million years,” Dean says. “Even if he wanted to be found.”

Azazel laughs faintly, shaking his head at the ground. “I don’t know where you get this idea of me, Nahaliel, I truly don’t,” he says, turning his head to look in Castiel’s direction, his expression thoughtful, calculative. “You think I want to hurt Samuel?” he asks. “We’ve spent a lot of time together in Hell, he and I; we’re kindred spirits, the only demons of our kind. I have more in common with him now than you ever did, and I think you’ll find he’s grown from the scared boy you knew him as. He’s really…spread his wings.”

“You’re lying,” Dean says, gritting his teeth.

“I’m sorry for you,” Azazel continues. “I really am, but I’m not the enemy you should be worried about. I mean to give Sam a greater purpose. In Hell, he’s a prince, and I’m going to make him great. All he is to Heaven is a traitor and a fugitive. Tell me, what are you going to do when you find him?”

Dean exhales, still spinning his blade in his hand while he talks. “And your greater purpose is what, exactly? The Apocalypse? I don’t want to rain on your parade, buddy, but Sam would never go in for that crap, okay? He would never, and if you think he would then the joke’s on you. What do you think he’s doing in all the towns he’s visiting?” His expression changes, the blade going still. “Don’t think I won’t kill you,” he says in a warning tone. “Lily doesn’t deserve to die but she sure as hell doesn’t deserve whatever you’ve got planned for her if you’re still alive.”

Castiel’s eyes fix on Dean in surprise when he hears him say it, but even as he does he feels doubt nagging at his resolve, if only for a second. He can see where Dean is coming from, but that doesn’t make it right. 

“Oh, is that right?” Azazel asks. “That’s the thing about angels, isn’t it? You talk big, but you’re no different from the rest of us. You’re wrong, though. My special children, they’re blessed. Destined for something greater than what they are. The strongest of them will thrive in the new world we’re creating. All I’m doing is giving them…a push.”

“Killing people is a pretty big push,” Dean says. 

“So what?” Azazel pushes his face closer to Dean’s. “Their lives don’t matter. All they do is stand in the way of progress.”

“You’ve fallen a long way, brother,” Dean says quietly.

Castiel sees what Dean is about to do a second before it happens. When he reacts, it’s with barely a thought in his head, rushing past Azazel to grab Dean’s wrist, and his human strength is not nearly enough to stop the man from pulling his arm back and driving the blade home, but it does distract Dean enough to make him falter, missing his mark and piercing Lily’s side, not deep enough to be lethal. For a second, Castiel sees orange light flicker beneath Lily’s skin, before Azazel’s eyes turn yellow once more. 

And then, just like that, he is gone, and Lily is also gone. There is no sound of wings accompanying his departure, just a near-painful silence and Dean staring at Castiel in anger.

“You son of a bitch,” he yells, shoving Castiel away from him. “You—fuck, I could have killed him, you could have killed him—”

“You could have killed _Lily_ ,” Castiel shouts back. “Or does her life mean nothing to you?”

“She’s going to go to Hell, Cas!” Dean counters, straightening up and slipping his angel blade up into the sleeve of his jacket. “Any longer on this road he’s got her on, and she’s going to end up in Hell. She’ll end up just like Azazel and the things we hunt which is a lot fucking worse than—”

“Dean.” Castiel does not back down. He grabs Dean’s lapels, shaking him. “We don’t kill people, we don’t ever. It’s not even an option. There’s always another way.”

“What the hell do you know about the other way?” Dean asks, not attempting to brush Castiel’s hands off even though he obviously can. “I’m going to see if I can follow them. You stay here and clean up this mess,” he snaps, and then he too is gone, and Castiel is alone in the hallway with four unconscious hotel guests and an angel blade clenched tightly in his hands. 

He isn’t sorry for what he did. He would do it again in the same situation. Azazel was using Lily as a human shield, and it worked, but Castiel isn’t going to apologise for letting it. But now Azazel is gone and so is Lily, and they are no closer to killing the demon or to finding Sam than they were when they started.

Not to mention the fact that Dean is pissed as hell. Despite his resolve, Castiel finds that upsetting, but he will just have to get over that, and Dean will too. Angrily, he goes into the hotel room, gathering the rest of Lily Baker’s things. He already knows that Azazel is not going to be coming back here, and he doubts that Dean will be able to find them either. 

He checks each person in the hallway for a pulse before he leaves, feeling relieved to find the lift empty again. There’s nothing more he can do for those people. He has to get out of this hotel as quickly as possible. 

Fortunately, nobody interrupts him on his way downstairs, and the drive back to the motel does not take long. He might be doing a little over the limit, but it isn’t rush hour and he manages. When he stops the Impala outside his and Dean’s room, he realises for the first time that the wing marks left by Virgil are no longer there. Did Dean find a way to remove them last night? It wouldn’t surprise him. 

He leaves the bag in the trunk while he makes his way inside, surprised to see that Dean is already there, his shoulders stiff as he sits over his computer, reading something that looks like a news article. He barely acknowledges Castiel’s presence. 

When Castiel finally can’t take the silence anymore, he says, “I take it you didn’t find them.”

Dean slams his computer shut. “No, I didn’t find them, Cas, did you think I would?” he asks, rounding on him, staring up at Castiel irately. 

Castiel is silent for a moment. “I couldn’t let you do it, Dean.”

Dean runs his hands through his hair, elbows on the table. “I’d give anything for no more people to die, Cas,” he says. “Do you seriously think it’s better this way? How many do you think are going to die between now and when we catch up with the bastard? All their deaths are going to be on you,” he says, his tone accusing. 

Castiel doesn’t answer immediately, and Dean rushes on without giving him a chance to. “Don’t you fucking dare get all pious on me, you self-righteous son of a bitch. What are you even going to do now? Azazel’s just going to be possessing some other bastard the next time we meet him. Does he deserve to die instead? You _can’t_ kill a demon like Azazel outside of a vessel. He’s too powerful to smite. I don’t want more people to die,” Dean repeats, his fist physically shaking. He presses it to the table to make it stop. “Shit,” he says, turning away at last. 

There is a myriad of thoughts running through Castiel’s mind by the time Dean has finished talking. He doesn’t know what to think, what to feel, and the conviction he had upon entering this room no longer feels so rock hard. He can see Dean’s point of view—he could see it back at the hotel just as easy. Right now, though, he just isn’t so sure of his own. When he finally speaks, it’s a sigh. “Dean…”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Dean says, not looking at him. “Not right now. From now on, we go after Sam directly, not Azazel. Chances are he or one of the special children will find us themselves.” 

Castiel decides not to argue, and he doesn’t think Dean would accept it if he tried. It seems as though all they’ve done for Lily and Ava and Andy when they’ve found them is to make things worse for them. “Do you have any idea where he might be?” he asks instead.

Dean gives a sigh, and if Castiel didn’t know any better, he’d say that Dean wants to fight him more. “Just a hunch,” he says. “About seven hours away; Palo Alto, California. We can be there tonight.”

“You want to leave now,” Castiel says, more of an observation than a question. 

“I hate this city,” Dean says simply, packing away his laptop and putting it in his bag. “I’ve got to check a few things out, though. Text me when you get to Los Angeles and I’ll join you there.”

“Where are you going?” Castiel asks, not big on the idea of separating at a time like this. It feels too much like they won’t meet up again. Not to mention the fact that they still need to address the elephant in the room; Castiel hasn’t exactly forgotten what Azazel said about Lucifer and the Apocalypse.

“I’ll explain later,” Dean says, and there is probably nothing he could have said to make Castiel more frustrated, and he obviously knows it. “Nowhere I can’t handle. You should hang onto my computer. I’ve got some stuff open you can read.”

“Hang on, Dean,” Castiel says. “If you’re mad at me—”

“Of course I’m mad at you,” Dean says flatly. “But I am a grown-up. This ain’t about that. I’ll see you in Los Angeles, Cas,” he says, and is gone.

Castiel stands alone in the empty room for a while, and he heaves a sigh. Things were certainly easier before Dean knew he could just zap himself away in plain sight.

“Damn it, Dean,” he mutters to himself.

There’s nothing else they can do in this city. They’ve done what they came here for, but it’s clear that Lily is no longer here and Andy might well be gone by now as well. The next thing he does is call the San Diego Police Department, and he spends about twenty minutes on the phone with them explaining that the FBI is handing the investigation back over to them before hanging up. He takes a shower before packing up the rest of their things and checking out.

It’s two hours to Los Angeles, and he buys a coffee for the trip, although he’s seriously considering stopping there for the night and getting drunk rather than powering the rest of the way to Palo Alto with Dean. He hasn’t gotten drunk in ages, and if there’s ever been a time for it, it’s now. 

He hates being alone in the car. Not in the sense that he has gotten used to having Dean around and is now hyper aware of his absence, but because when he’s alone, it’s harder to avoid thinking about _things_ , like the number of times he’s almost died in the last twenty-four hours, like how badly he’s fucked up his relationship with Dean and how little he really knows about this whole situation with Sam and Azazel and, apparently, the Apocalypse. It’s harder to avoid thinking about the Apocalypse. He’ll need to do some reading on that tonight. 

When he finally does arrive in Los Angeles, it’s half past three, and rather than immediately texting Dean he stops at a Biggerson’s and goes inside with Dean’s laptop, ordering another coffee and the greasiest burger on the menu and settling in to read the articles Dean has on Palo Alto. 

The page the computer is open to is a news article about a semitrailer collision in which none of the people involved died in spite of one of the passengers in the car that was hit sustaining a severe concussion and slipping temporarily into a coma. She woke up several days later completely fine, and her family called it a miracle. Castiel touches his own head while he reads it, thinking back to the first time he met Dean in Kansas. He knows how he survived now. Dean really was a very good liar. 

The article is dated a week ago, and Castiel flips to the next tab Dean had open. This one is about a homeless man winning the lottery. It might not be anything more than chance, but it happened the same day that the woman woke from her coma. The next tab is a blog entry, and Castiel frowns as he starts to read through it, letting his elbow rest on the table.

It was apparently written by a student at Stanford University a few days after the first two events. The student, whose name is Jessica, apparently went out for the night with a group of friends when altercation had taken place in the bar they were visiting between her friend Brady and another man she didn’t know. 

Jessica didn’t see exactly how the argument started; she was at the table with the rest of the group while Brady went to the bar for drinks, but it ended abruptly when the man grabbed Brady by the head and threw him at the ground, then escaped the bar before anybody could stop him. Brady himself had survived the ordeal uninjured, but apparently suffered memory loss from hitting his head on the ground.

That’s the story, but then Jessica goes further, explaining that Brady had been acting strange the whole evening, but after they drove him home following the incident he was back to normal, albeit shaken from the ordeal. 

Castiel’s frown deepens as he reads the rest of the post. Jessica is asking her followers if anyone has seen the man from the bar. The most important thing, the thing that draws his attention, is that she has posted a photograph of him.

The focus of the picture is clearly Jessica herself; she appears in the centre as a smiling, curly-haired blonde, the picture clearly taken by a friend while they were at their table, but she has drawn a circle around one of the faces in the bar behind her and enhanced the lighting with photoshop. 

Despite Jessica’s attempts to improve the quality, the image is still grainy. The man is sitting down at the bar, and only the side of his face is visible. He appears tall, with hair down to his collar, and he sits alone with a bottle in his hand. 

Castiel doesn’t know what Sam looks like. He never got a chance to see Ava’s drawing, but Dean has clearly found this picture and decided it’s worth following. From the post and knowing what he knows, Brady was a demon, and the stranger was Sam. Why either of those would be at a bar in California Castiel doesn’t know, but that’s what they’re going to find out. Knowing Dean, that’s probably where he has gone—ahead to Palo Alto to check things out as quickly as possible while he waits for Castiel to arrive with the car and their belongings. “Just a hunch my ass, Dean Winchester,” he says to himself, finishing his coffee while he reads up more on the Book of Revelations. 

He knew enough about it as a teenager attending Sunday school, but his Bible studies have lapsed significantly since then. He tries reading through Revelations itself but quickly stops following it and opens the Wikipedia article instead. He doubts the information to be found here will be of any use to him—what he really needs is to talk to Dean. 

He leaves the restaurant at four, taking out his phone when he is once again seated in the driver’s seat of the Impala but before he leaves the parking lot. He deliberates for a minute. If he leaves now he won’t reach Palo Alto until night time, and he really doesn’t feel up to another five hours in the car, especially with Dean. 

God help him, though. They have an arrangement, and Dean owes him an explanation. He opens his messages, starting a text message to Dean. 

He pauses before he finishes it though, looking down at his phone with a mixed expression. There’s something else he wants to do first, and it’s something that he needs as well. He should have done it a long time ago, and if there’s anything he’s learned from this whole experience, it’s that he needs to get his priorities straight. 

Opening his contacts, he clicks the first name on the list and holds the phone to his ear, half expecting it not to pick up. 

When it does, though, and a tentative sounding voice gives him a ‘hello’, he is ready for it. “Hey, Anna, it’s me,” he says, leaning back in the driver’s seat and looking up at the roof of the car. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you the other day, you wouldn’t believe how busy I’ve been.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, I've had this sitting in a document since November along with the next chapter, it's just taken me forever to edit it because I am Trash. (It's taken me two rounds of NaNoWriMo to get this far!) Honestly, I don't know how these long ass chapters keep happening. I keep telling myself I'm being succinct. I do intend to actually earn the right to use Sam's character tag with this next chapter, though. I should even post it in time for the next Olympics!
> 
> Legit, though, I'm terribly sorry, it's been almost a year since my last chapter. All I can say is that this is definitely not an abandoned work ~_~ I'm still really enjoying writing it and I definitely intend to power on to the end. I hope you guys can take some level of entertainment from my ramblings. Please leave a comment if you want!


	6. Palo Alto, California

* * *

Dean shows up within minutes when Castiel finally texts him, appearing in the passenger seat with a quiet flutter, and Castiel starts the engine wordlessly, turning towards the highway. Dean’s eyes remain focused on Castiel for a minute without speaking, sensing the change in his demeanour. He is relaxed, happy even. 

“I read the articles on your computer,” Castiel says at last, once they’re onto the main highway. There is a bit of afternoon traffic coming out of the city. “The last one was interesting—the college girl one.”

“Yeah.” Dean settles into his seat, looking out the window. “You see the picture?”

“Was it him?” Castiel asks, glancing at him.

“I don’t know from a photograph,” Dean says. “I’ll know him when I see him but he could look like anyone. But yeah, I think it was.”

Castiel turns his head back to the road, but he turns over Dean’s words. “You have no idea what he looks like?” he asks at last.

“He’s still gotta use a human body if he wants to walk among humans,” Dean says. “Sam would go out of his way to find one that wasn’t already occupied. The guy’s probably brain dead, but a vessel’s a vessel.”

“Right,” Castiel says. 

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Dean says, still staring unseeingly through his window. 

“No, Dean, you were right,” Castiel says. 

At this, Dean turns to look at him. “Not really what I was expecting.”

“I should have taken the shot,” Castiel says, his voice calm and composed. He’s thought about this. He’s thought about what he needs to say. “It’s the logical thing to have done and looking back, what I did was stupid.”

“It was stupid,” Dean says. “It was very human, though.”

Castiel exhales slowly. “You were right, I didn’t think. I just saw what you were about to do and I remembered what you’d said before, about all the people you killed. I remembered what you thought about yourself because of it and I just knew I couldn’t let you do it again. So I got in the way.”

“I don’t need you to watch out for me.”

“Yes, you do,” Castiel says. “So listen to me, Dean, when push comes to shove, I’m going to do it. No matter what vessel Azazel is using, it has to be me that kills him.”

“If I get a shot I’m going to take it,” Dean says matter-of-factly.

“I know,” Castiel says softly. “I’m going to stop that from being necessary.”

“Thanks,” Dean murmurs, not looking at him.

Castiel steals another look his way. Dean is distracted, lost in thought. He lets it be for a few more minutes, the time ticking away while the traffic gradually thins. 

“Are you going to tell me what you’ve been doing all afternoon?” he asks at last.

“Yeah, I should,” Dean says, straightening up. “You remember what Azazel said?” he asks. “About the whole, you know, Apocalypse thing?”

“It’s not something you forget,” Castiel says dryly. 

“Lucifer is down there,” Dean says, making a vague downwards gesture. “Like I said, Michael gave him his own special cage. There are only a few forces on Earth capable of opening that cage, but it’s been foretold, ever since Adam and Eve, one day it’s going to be opened, and the forces of Heaven and Hell are going to do battle on Earth. The Earth will be destroyed in the crossfire, but after Heaven wins a new paradise will emerge, and mankind will start anew free from sin and struggle.” He rattles it off like it’s from a book, his tone bland and emotionless. 

“That’s bad,” Castiel says. Obviously the end does not justify the means. 

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Dean agrees. 

“And what if Hell wins?” 

“Well, Hell on Earth, obviously,” Dean says, shrugging. “But it won’t win. Michael’s more powerful than Lucifer. But if Lucifer is freed, there’s going to be a fight. A war. Billions of people are going to die before peace is achieved. That’s what Azazel is prepping the special children for; he’s moulding them into warriors for Lucifer. Humans are more powerful than demons, you know, it’s just that none of them can tap all that energy contained within their souls. If they learn, and Azazel’s humans will, they’re going to be unstoppable. Whichever ones of them are left by the end of it, at least,” he adds in a darker tone.

There is a sinking feeling in Castiel’s stomach even before Dean finishes speaking. “Why them, though? What’s so special about Lily and the others?” 

“Well, I did some digging,” Dean says. “Remember how we used to think they were witches?” 

“Yes.”

“Well, I was half right. When Sam escaped from Hell, it got the ball rolling. Azazel and Lucifer and the rest of the demons decided that now was the time to start Armageddon. So Azazel put the word out, and everyone practicing black magic within a thousand mile radius got the message to come to Lawrence to hear him preach the word of the devil. I guess while he was there, Azazel started making deals with some of the locals.”

“Demon deals,” Castiel repeats, remembering the section in the demon book about Crossroad’s demons.

“Yeah, basically,” Dean says. “But whatever the people were asking for, they weren’t giving their souls in return. Lily and Ava and the others, Azazel did something to all of them when they were little, and it made them grow up different.”

“Like what?” Castiel asks, although he doubts he wants to know.

“Like feed them his blood,” Dean says grimly. “Demon blood, it has special properties. You drink enough of it, it makes you stronger. It manifests itself in different ways; Ava started getting premonitions, Andy got mind control, you name it, but with enough training they could do anything. I wouldn’t be surprised if Azazel starts giving them more of it now they’re older.”

“But why would their parents agree to something like that?” Castiel asks. What could he possibly have offered them?

“He probably didn’t spell it out for them,” Dean says. “A demon deal is binding; he can’t break a promise, but if he doesn’t mention the fine print he can pretty much do whatever he wants. He would’ve offered them whatever they want in exchange for something as simple as access to their house in a year’s time. People will agree to that when they need something badly enough.”

Castiel wrinkles his nose. “The demon blood. How do we fix it?” 

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “That kind of thing, it becomes part of you. You can’t just get it out of your system. But if it was Azazel’s blood, then maybe killing him will cure the kids.”

It’s a maybe, but Castiel can’t argue with killing Azazel. It’s worth a shot. He knows that Ava and the others aren’t bad people, whatever Azazel has made them do. When they’re free of him, it will be half the battle already won. 

“Anyway,” Dean says. “To free Lucifer, you need to break sixty-six of the seals to his cage. They’re basically a series of spells, rituals. Most of them centre around certain times of the year, phases of the moon, you know, and they’re not easy, but whatever. I’ve been running around the country all afternoon trying to find evidence, and some of the seals have already been broken. There’s no telling how many.”

Castiel’s hands go stiff on the steering wheel. “How much time do we have?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “They’ve had this in the making for thirty years. Heaven must know about it by now but they’re not going to try and stop it. They want their Apocalypse just as much as Hell does.”

“Then we should assume it’s going to happen soon.”

“Yeah.” Dean rubs his temples. “We can’t fail, Cas, we just can’t. I don’t even know what we’d do if Lucifer got free. We can’t kill him.”

“What do we have to do to stop it?” Castiel asks matter-of-factly. 

“Kill Azazel, for one thing,” Dean says. 

“But you don’t think that will be enough,” Castiel observes. 

It takes a while for Dean to answer. “Lucifer needs Sam,” he says at last. “He doesn’t get Sam, there’s no Apocalypse. That’s why Azazel’s so set on finding him.”

“What does he need with Sam?”

“Sam’s more than just the devil’s right hand,” Dean says, staring straight ahead. “His grace is an extension of Lucifer’s. It’s the same with me and Michael. We’re not angels, Cas, we’re weapons. It’s our reason for being.”

Dean’s words shed a different light on their conversation from before, about Dean’s obedience to Michael’s orders to kill and the true significance of Sam and Dean’s rebellion. 

“When Michael cast Lucifer down, Sam’s grace became part of the lock,” Dean says. “Not literally, I mean, he still had it, but his grace was Lucifer’s grace, and that made it special. It’s the final key to the puzzle, and it has to be his. Sam is the sixty-sixth seal.”

“But Sam is a demon now,” Castiel points out. 

Dean shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. His grace is tainted by Hell but it’s still his, and Lucifer practically _is_ Hell.”

Castiel is silent for a moment, taking all of this in. “Is that why you want to make Sam a human?” he asks, side eying Dean. “To…free him of Lucifer?”

Dean sighs. “I told you,” he says. “Sam’s a lousy angel and an even lousier demon. Humans, they’re full of guilt and rage and envy but they’re—” He stops, looking at Castiel. “—they’re full of compassion, and love, and they just _care_ so much. Sam’s a human, it’s where he belongs.”

It’s where you belong as well, Castiel thinks, meeting Dean’s eyes.

“But,” Dean looks away quickly, “I’m not going to lie, Sam’s grace is a time bomb. We get rid of it—and I don’t just mean removing it, I mean we destroy it and send the pieces to the fucking moon—we’ve tossed away the proverbial key. Forever. There can never be an Apocalypse no matter what Michael or Lucifer does about it.” 

“You can tell whoever came up with that that it was a pretty big oversight,” Castiel says. 

“Lucky for us it was,” Dean says. 

In a way, Castiel feels better now knowing that. They have a fixed goal in mind. It finally feels like he knows everything Dean knows, although he doubts that’s ever going to happen. He settles back in the driver’s seat to get comfortable, eyes watching the road. The traffic is gone now, and the sun is setting on his left. It finally feels like they’re going somewhere.

He steals another glance at his companion, though. Dean is leaning against the passenger door, his chin on his knuckles. The dusky light is illuminating him just right, turning his skin golden and making his freckles stand out around his face. He must have noticed Castiel staring, because his head turns towards him after a second, forcing Castiel to look back at the road before Dean accuses him of playing with their lives, but there’s a smile on his face nonetheless. 

“What are you going to do, Dean?” he asks him. 

Dean gives him a quelling look. 

“I’m serious,” Castiel says, his smile fading. “Michael is going to know what you did when Azazel fails to open the cage.”

“He’s not in a hurry,” Dean says. “It’ll be decades before he catches on that something’s wrong. Sam’s just going to be another soul in Heaven by then.”

“And then what?” Castiel asks, pushing on. 

“You mean, do I think he’ll kill me?” Dean asks stiffly, holding Castiel’s gaze squarely. “Don’t know, he might.”

“That’s not good enough,” Castiel says. Dean told him just this morning that he was no longer planning on going back to Michael. Has he already changed his mind?

“I have to, Cas.” Dean drums his fingers on the car door, staring stubbornly out the window. “I told you, Michael will get angry if I go missing, and when he gets angry, innocent people get caught in the crossfire, it’s as simple as that. What would you have me do?”

“I want you to not just accept this.” It hardly seems fair, after everything Dean has done for his brother, and for humanity. Dean is a good man. “We’ll think of something, but you have to trust me. I know you don’t want to go back to Michael and I also know you don’t think you deserve to be saved.”

“I don’t need to hear this from you,” Dean says, a scoff. 

“Shut up,” Castiel says. “Compassion, and kindness, they’re qualities you praise in your brother but you don’t even see them in yourself. I’m sorry you don’t, I am, but they’re there. If finishing this mission means getting you killed, whether it’s today or fifty years from now, then I want no part in it.”

“Then leave,” Dean says quietly. 

He should have known Dean would say that. It isn’t a surprising thing to hear. “No,” Castiel says slowly, “That isn’t an answer and I think you know that.”

“What are you going to do about it, Cas?” When Dean turns to look at him this time, Castiel is taken aback by the sheer amount of emotion written upon his beautiful face. The pain of loss and fear and infinite sadness. 

Castiel doesn’t look away. “I’m going to save you.”

Dean gives a dry laugh, turning back to the window. He does not speak again, and neither does Castiel. 

When they finally get to Palo Alto, it’s almost ten. Castiel grabs some McDonald’s from the drive-though before they check into a motel, carrying some of their things inside where Castiel hurriedly eats. It’s he who finally breaks the silence between them.

“Are you going after Sam tonight?” he asks him, throwing his rubbish across the room into the bin. They know the location of the bar where Jessica and her friends encountered Sam. Maybe he’ll go there again, although it’s unlikely. At the very least there could be somebody there who saw more of the confrontation, who can give them information. 

“I don’t even know if he’s still here,” Dean says. “But blundering into the places I know he’s visited has never worked for me before so I doubt it’s going to do much for us this time. I was actually thinking we set a trap.”

“A trap,” Castiel repeats in a questioning tone. “Alright, go on.”

Dean makes his way over to where he has put his duffle bag, on the bed. Castiel watches as he pulls out the demon book, flipping through the pages while he makes his way over to the table where Castiel is sitting. 

The page he is open to when he sets the book down in front of him is familiar. “A Devil’s trap,” Castiel observes. “Will that work on Sam?”

“Don’t see any reason why it wouldn’t,” Dean says. “It should get him to stay put long enough to hear me out.”

“Okay.” Castiel pulls the book closer. He’s practiced drawing the sigil a couple of times, but he’s never had to use it. He doubts he’ll be able to do it from memory yet. “How do we get him inside it?”

“Bait,” Dean explains. 

“If you’re going to suggest I get hit by another truck and wait to be cured—”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Dean says. “I was thinking of summoning a demon.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Oh, well, in that case—”

“It isn’t hard to do,” Dean says. “He’s powerful enough to smite lower-order demons like the one possessing Jessica’s friend. He smells a demon in town, making deals with the locals, he won’t be able to resist.”

“So we need crossroads,” Castiel says. “And I need to sell my soul.”

“Come on, you’re not actually going to sell your soul,” Dean says. “They can’t force you to make a deal; just change your mind at the last second. It won’t seem suspicious; people do it all the time, and worst case scenario you’ll still have the angel blade and the cavalry. Crossroads demons like to stick around for a while after summoning, hang out around bars and see if they can’t scrounge up any more deals.”

“That’s a great plan,” Castiel says, even though it’s a terrible plan. He doesn’t want some poor bastard selling their soul because of a demon he summoned. With any luck, though, that won’t be an issue. He doesn’t have any better ideas and like Dean said, they can still kill the demon themselves if Sam doesn’t show. The world won’t be worse off for it.

Dean obviously senses his sarcasm as well, but he doesn’t address it, instead flipping through the book to the section on summoning a Crossroads demon. “We’re going to need a cat bones, yarrow, a photograph of you…”

Castiel hears him list off the ingredients but he doesn’t pay them much attention. He’s still stuck on their conversation from earlier, in the car. It was hours ago, but nothing has changed. Neither of them are particularly keen to address it. 

When Dean finishes explaining the summoning ritual, he falls silent, realising that Castiel hasn’t been listening. “We can do it tomorrow, though. I’ve got to let you sleep _some_ times,” he says awkwardly.

Castiel nods his agreement. He doesn’t want to go demon-summoning when he’s as tired as he is. “What about you?” he asks.

“I wish you’d stop asking me that,” Dean says.

“Are you going to look for him tonight?”

“He’d see me coming from a mile away.” Dean slumps down onto his bed. “For all I know he’s already realised we’re here and taken off. It’s got to be you that finds him. Once the demon’s in town, you’ll tail it and keep me updated remotely.”

Castiel still doesn’t know how they’re going to get Sam into a Devil’s trap, but he’ll worry about that later. “Fine, whatever you think.”

“Tonight, I’m going to make a new episode,” Dean continues without pausing. “I’ve gotten behind, folks are starting to worry.”

“You wouldn’t want that,” Castiel says. “What will you talk about?”

“I have no idea,” Dean says, lying back on the bed.

“You always have an idea.”

“There are hundreds of beings out there I haven’t covered yet, and I got no clue.” Dean stares up at the ceiling and Castiel moves to join him, eyes trailing briefly down the length of his body. He sits down on the adjacent bed. “Maybe, I don’t know, nymphs? Could get a month’s worth of episodes out of nymphs,” he muses. “And there’s a lot of places you can go from there. Cultures all over the world have their own lore about beautiful women. Might be best to start broader than just Greece.” Dean cushions his head on his hands while he brainstorms. “I don’t know, I’ll think of something. I don’t really feel like telling them about my personal crap right now.”

Castiel leans forward while Dean talks so that he can rest his elbow on his knee, his chin in his hand. Again, he’s not really listening to his words so much as the way that he talks, the things that he says. Dean loves doing _Supernatural_ ; it may have started as an attempt to get a message out to his brother but it has grown from that. Dean enjoys sharing his knowledge and he even enjoys the attention he gets from his fans. There’s a boyish kind of smile on Dean’s face right now, even as he brushes over the subject of his ‘personal crap’. The distraction is good for him, if short lived.

Castiel gives a hum in agreement, and Dean opens his eyes as if surprised to see him so close. He sits up, his expression changing a little. “Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?” Castiel asks, frowning.

“ _That_ ,” Dean says again, waving his hand at him. “That, that way that you do. You’re doing it now.”

“I wasn’t aware I was doing anything differently.”

“That’s because you do it all the damn time,” Dean says, unimpressed. “Stop it.”

Castiel adopts his resting face, although he has it on good authority that his resting face is intimidating, and says, “My apologies.”

Dean grunts awkwardly, but he surprises Castiel a second later when he gets up and crosses the short space between their beds to where Castiel is sitting. He gets onto the bed in front of him, knees on either side of Castiel’s hips as he straddles his lap and starts kissing him, his eyes falling closed while his fingers grab a patch of his hair. 

Castiel is quick to respond, his fingers slipping underneath Dean’s t-shirt to hold his waist, nimbly running up and down his sides while he becomes familiar with the feeling of Dean’s warm skin. He kisses back with equal fervour, his tongue entering Dean’s mouth at the same time Dean’s does, tasting him. 

Dean doesn’t seem to need air, but when they finally break apart, their mouths still brushing, their breaths are both heavy. Castiel sucks Dean’s bottom lip for a second before giving it a light nip and moving his lips down to Dean’s neck, pressing languid, open-mouthed kisses to the soft flesh, and it works, everything about the way they move together works, and Dean is perfect. Castiel could probably spend all day just like this, slowly kissing every inch of his body until he is finally familiar with it, every curve and scar and freckle. 

A small noise escapes Dean’s mouth as his breath hitches, just as Castiel’s mouth makes its way down to where his neck meets shoulder, and Castiel registers the tent in his jeans a second after Dean does. There’s just a tad of embarrassment over how quickly that happened, and on top of him, Dean shifts his weight a little, eyes opening. The two of them lock eyes for a moment, unmistakeable lust written across Dean’s features as he holds Castiel’s head, planting his other hand on his chest.

A few seconds pass in which neither of them moves, and then Dean is kissing him again, but this time the kisses are slower, more tentative, just chaste touches of their lips. Then Dean shakes his head. “Not right now,” he says hoarsely.

Castiel groans, but he is nodding even as he does so. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs back, pressing a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. It looks like another cold shower is in order when they eventually decide to stop, but Dean does not seem keen to move, and Castiel definitely isn’t. He returns his lips to Dean’s neck, closing his eyes once more while he starts to kiss him again, taking in the smell of ozone and gently nuzzling Dean’s skin. Dean, for his part, closes his eyes as well, his hand in Castiel’s hair relaxing to the point where it’s simply resting there, and he raises the other from chest to join it, cradling Castiel’s head loosely while he breathes heavily, inches from Castiel’s ear and close enough to feel his warm breath stirring his hair. 

Castiel kisses a trail down Dean’s neck, only stopping when he gets to the collar of his shirt, and moves his lips down to his collarbone. Underneath Dean’s layers, his hands run up his sides again, feeling the scar left from Illinois before they move around to his back. 

Dean’s breath hitches again, and Castiel opens his eyes, glancing up to see he has tilted his head to give him better access, and he is the image of beautiful; his green eyes are close but his face, still coloured with blush, relaxes in a peaceful kind of smile. One of his hands is absentmindedly tracing patterns into Castiel’s scalp, although Castiel doubts he’s even aware of it. There have been few occasions in the time Castiel has known him where Dean has looked this happy.

Dean’s eyes open when he realises Castiel has stopped, and he looks down at him, maybe a little flustered. “You’re doing it again,” he says.

“The look?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah.” Dean’s hands drop from Castiel’s head as he looks down at him. “I’m not worth it, Cas.” His voice is softer now, although not quite a whisper.

Reaching up, Castiel places his hand on Dean’s face, cupping his palm against his cheek and gently stroking his thumb across his cheekbone. “Not worth being looked at?”

“Not like you do,” Dean says, turning his eyes away. 

Castiel doesn’t know how to answer that. He uses his other hand to reach for Dean’s, holding and squeezing it gently. “Why, Dean?”

Dean sighs abruptly. “Please, Cas.”

It’s not an answer, and Castiel wants to push it, but he doesn’t. Dean hasn’t tensed up, but he gets off of him, scrambling to get back to his feet. Castiel does not move from where he’s sitting, watching as Dean busies himself with going back to his bag, getting out his computer and carrying it over to the table. 

Castiel looks down at his hand, balling it into a fist in an attempt to forget the way it had felt to be holding Dean’s. He should probably take that shower now; it’s already obvious that the moment is over. Getting to his feet, he looks at Dean, not moving towards the bathroom just yet. “It’s okay, you know,” he says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asks, more curious than anything else. It’s hard to read his face; he’s adopted his mask, his defence, and there’s no trace of the man from before who kissed him and held him and craved the loving touches he had never been allowed to have, but Castiel sees right through him anyway. Dean, the real Dean, is right beneath the surface. 

“Just this,” Castiel says, gesturing around the room in a vain attempt to convey his meaning. He’s not even sure what that is himself, but he knows that it’s okay, and Dean needs to know that. “All of it. It’s okay.”

Dean doesn’t answer for a second, but something about his expression changes, becomes softer, and he nods slowly. “Thank you.”

Castiel offers him a nod in response, along with a crooked kind of smile, before he disappears into the bathroom. Dean sees himself as broken, poison, unworthy of being looked upon with love, and Castiel needs him to know that he is not. There is so much good inside him that he doesn’t see because he has been trained never to see it. One day, Castiel hopes that will change, but until then, all he can do is tell Dean that it’s okay. 

Castiel doesn’t sleep with Dean beside him that night, but the man is only across the room using his computer, and the tapping sound of his keyboard is a comfort. Dean doesn’t have to pretend to be human anymore, so he stays in the room while he works, not worried about Castiel questioning why he never seems to sleep. When he finally does fall unconscious, it’s to that sound, and it’s a nice sound. 

He’s gotten used to being woken by Dean’s recording as well; the man usually waits until at least six to start, and Castiel occasionally indulges himself in listening to Dean speak before he gets out of bed. Today, though, they have a lot to do, so he starts getting dressed while Dean gestures irritably for him to keep quiet from time to time. The laptop microphone is bad enough as it is. 

When he finally sits down at the table, a cup of instant coffee in his hand, he’s dressed in jeans and an AC/DC t-shirt with his trench coat draped across the back of the chair. Perfect attire for summoning demons. He sips his coffee while he listens to Dean talk. He has gone with nature spirits as their latest theme, and Castiel waits without boredom for Dean to finish talking about the characteristics of the various deities and the thought processes that have shaped humanity’s perception of them. 

He doesn’t mention anything about Azazel, or the special children, and least of all about Sam. Castiel wonders if Dean still has hope that Sam will find the show. If he hasn’t so far, he probably never will. Sam has spent the last thirty years running away. He probably doesn’t have time to surf the internet. 

“Big day, then, huh?” Dean asks when he finally turns off the microphone, not meeting Castiel’s eyes as he reaches for his headphones to replay the audio. 

“If we’re lucky.” Castiel pulls the book towards himself, from where it was left last night. “Do we know how this is going to work?” he asks.

Dean is about to start editing, but at the question, he heaves a sigh and puts down the headphones. Castiel wonders if part of him is trying to stall. “Most of the roads around the bar Jessica visited are bitumen,” he says. “Which isn’t great for burying stuff in. This is where we’ll go,” he says, reaching for the map he collected from reception and opening it to show where he has marked it with a black cross. “It’s a little out of the way but we shouldn’t get too many cars driving by to disturb you. So you’ll bury the box, say the ritual, act surprised when the demon appears, ask for something cool and then chicken out when it tries to kiss you.”

“Seems simple enough,” Castiel says, wondering why a demon would try and kiss him but accepting it nonetheless. “And you’ll be watching the whole thing?”

“Well, yeah,” Dean says. “Just don’t do anything too offensive. If it thinks you weren’t genuinely interested in selling your soul it’ll try and kill you.”

“Great,” Castiel says. “And how do we get it to cross Sam’s path?”

“With any luck, its arrival will lead to a whole lot of demonic omens. Enough to get Sam’s attention, but I’ll go make some crop circles and steal some cattle myself just so we’re really laying it on thick,” Dean says. “While I’m doing that, you’re going to be tailing the demon. You shouldn’t have too many problems as long as you keep your head down.”

“I can do that,” Castiel says without hesitating. He’s tailed plenty of people without getting caught. “And the Devil’s trap?”

“The Devil’s trap depends on everything else,” Dean explains. “We can’t risk the demon we summon getting caught in one or the whole gig is up, so we’ll wait until you locate Sam before doing anything. Once you do, you’ve got to lead him into it.”

_If_ I locate Sam, Castiel thinks, but he doesn’t want to share his pessimism with Dean. He has enough of that on his own. “How do you propose I do that?”

Dean is silent for a moment. “Look shady,” he says helpfully. “Then do something suspicious-looking.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“It depends on where the demon’s led you,” Dean says. “If it’s a bar you just, I don’t know, pretend to drop something in somebody’s drink and then head out the back door. If I know Sam he’ll follow you and then try to beat the crap out of you. Text me the minute you see him so I’ll have put the trap under the door by then, it only takes me a minute or so to finish one.”

This is a terrible plan, and if Castiel ends up with his soul missing, arrested for suspicious behaviour or pummelled by the right hand of Satan himself he’s never going to forgive Dean for it, but he doesn’t have a better idea so for now it will have to do. All of this rides on the crossroads demon actually appearing and behaving as Dean thinks it will, and until that has happened, anything else is up in the air. 

“Fine,” Castiel says, taking a long drink from his coffee cup. “Then let’s get started.”

* * *

Castiel has always pictured this kind of activity as something that happens in basements or out in forests in the dead of night, not under the blaring sunlight in the middle of an empty road. The weather is warming with the end of winter so that now it’s only pleasantly cool out. By all accounts, it’s a nice day. A nice day to be holding a piece of paper in Dean’s handwriting with the words to recite while he bends down, burying a small cloth bag containing the ingredients Dean collected for him last night.

Dean himself is back off the road, sheltering unseen behind the bushes that are growing on one corner of the crossroads. Castiel shoots him a look as he straightens up, and Dean gives a thumbs up in response, backing away from sight. 

“Once all of this is over, you’re still going to smite the demon,” Castiel says, turning his eyes back down to the paper in his hand and squinting at the exorcism.

“Well, yeah,” Dean says, albeit sounding like this hadn’t occurred to him before now. “We might as well, if it’s still around.”

Castiel grunts once, and then clears his throat. “ _Demon esto subiectus voluntati_ …” He trails off, casting his eyes around before turning around on the spot. 

Nothing has changed. His eyes fall on the patch of bushes where he last saw Dean, and for a moment he considers asking him if there’s more, but then he feels an unnatural breeze on the back of his neck and he spins around quickly. 

She appears before him in the body of a young brunette, and her eyes are red, but they fade to brown shortly after Castiel has turned to face her. For a moment, he is taken aback. She is different from all the other demons he’s seen, different in the way she holds herself and the deceptive smile upon her face. 

He quickly steels himself, though, his fingers curling tightly around the paper in his hand while he straightens his back and takes a backwards step. 

“Hi,” is the first thing she says to him, and she comes closer, circling somewhat with her smile not fading. Castiel tenses, leaning away from her slightly. He’s thought about this. He knows what he’s meant to say, and he’s not afraid but he is wary. The angel blade is there in his jacket if he needs it. “What can I do for you?”

The demon stops walking when she is at his side. Castiel swallows, selling the nerves. “I,” he begins, “I have to admit, I wasn’t really expecting anybody to show,” he says, his voice shaking just enough to be convincing without overdoing it. 

She grins at him. “Well, here I am,” she says, coming closer, and Castiel steps back again to compensate. He doesn’t want to get close to her in any case. “You must have had something you wanted pretty badly if you decided to try.”

“Well, yes,” Castiel says, taking a deep breath and resisting the urge to look in Dean’s direction again. “I want…I want to be rich.” It’s a simple request, but a pretty safe one. There’s nothing strange about wanting to be rich. “Can you do that?”

The woman looks disappointed. “Sure, I can do that,” she says, and when she comes closer this time Castiel does not move away. He meets her gaze head-on. “But it’s a little boring, I guess. I was expecting more from you, you just don’t seem the type.”

Well, he didn’t expect that. He makes a forced laughing kind of sound. “Um, what type do I seem like?” he asks. 

She reaches up with a slender hand, brushing her fingers across his shoulders while she walks around him in slow circles. “The type whose seen enough tragedy to know that money is worthless,” she says, and stops just in front of him again, face to face. Dean’s warning about not letting her kiss him is at the forefront of his mind. He doesn’t lean away, though. “You could have money if you wanted, deal or no deal, but I don’t think that’s what you want.”

“What do I want?” Castiel’s voice is harder now he’s not focusing on acting scared. He looks down at the demon, blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. 

“Lots of things,” the demon says, a pleased look upon her face. “Closure, for one thing. You’re so… _angry_.” She starts circling him again, and Castiel takes advantage of the moment she’s behind him to shoot a look in Dean’s direction. He sees his head peeking out from behind his hiding place, and he looks worried, like this isn’t turning out the way he expected, but Castiel shakes his head. Dean doesn’t have to step in yet, he’s got this. 

“Right,” Castiel says, forcing a laugh. “Listen, if you’re not going to give me what I came here for—”

“I never said that.” She comes to a halt, looking up at him with eyes that suddenly flash red again. “I know what it is you really want, and I can give it to you.”

Castiel is silent for a moment. “Is that right?”

She looks pleased. “I can give you your brother,” she says, and she’s suddenly circling him again but Castiel goes still in the same moment, not looking over to Dean anymore.

“What did you say?”

“Your kid brother,” she states matter-of-factly. “Samandriel, right?”

Catching the alarmed look upon his face, she laughs. “Oh, come on, you’re not fooling anybody, Castiel,” she says. “You think I don’t know who you are? My colleagues have been watching your movements for some time now. You’ve caused quite a bit of trouble with that angel friend of yours.”

Castiel recognises the danger just in time to look over towards Dean, but his guardian angel is no longer visible. He is led out onto the road moments later, his hands in the air with his own angel blade held to his throat by a demon wearing the body of a young man with thick black hair and a short beard. Castiel only wonders how it managed to overpower him for a few seconds before a further four demons follow them out. Even then, Dean does not look scared. His eyes are fixed unwaveringly on the crossroads demon with a murderous look. 

They must have known they were coming here. If Azazel somehow found the same trail that Dean did he would know where to go. He and his demons could have been following him since San Diego and they would not have known. After that, it wouldn’t have been hard to simply spy on them. Maybe that’s been his intention all along; follow them, and hopefully they will lead him straight to Sam. 

If that’s true, though, the joke is on him, because they still have no idea where Sam is. 

When Castiel turns back to the woman, his own expression is not much different. “Where is Azazel?” he asks stiffly.

“Forget Azazel,” she says dismissively. “I have to say, I can respect your little plan. It’s cute, but it would never have worked. Let’s talk about you instead, Castiel.”

“Alright,” Castiel says cautiously, meeting Dean’s eyes. Dean doesn’t look scared, but there’s obvious discomfort on his face when the two look at each other. None of the demons have made any attempt to attack or even restrain Castiel, which is somehow even worse than the alternative. 

“I’m offering you a deal,” she says. “I can give you your brother back. I’ll even let you and your friend go scotch-free. All I want in return is for you to back down.”

Back down. Stop looking for Sam? That isn’t going to happen. “And my soul,” he adds.

She looks impatient. “When you die,” she admits. “But you’ll have the rest of your life, not to mention the rest of your brother’s.”

They’ll think of something. “My brother’s been dead for eleven years,” Castiel says flatly. 

She snorts. “He’ll adjust. People do.” She steels her gaze. “And don’t make the mistake of thinking you and Dean over there are both walking out of here without giving something in return.”

“Why not just kill us?” Castiel asks. “You’d be saving yourself a lot of trouble.”

It takes just a little too long for her to answer, making Castiel narrow his eyes. “What can I say?” she asks. “I’m a saleswoman, I love a win-win.”

“No,” Castiel says immediately, almost before she finishes speaking. “You don’t care about that. Azazel didn’t kill us in San Diego; he needs us alive for something.” He halts, suddenly looking up at Dean. “He needs Dean alive, and the only reason you want me is to make him cooperate,” he observes, turning to the demon again. She looks uncomfortable, which makes Castiel smirk, rubbing his chin briefly. “You might as well let him go, then.”

He doesn’t expect her to cooperate, so he isn’t surprised when she doesn’t. Dean can still kill every one of these demons with his bare hands, so he can see why. “Don’t for one minute think you’re not expendable, Castiel.”

“Expendable is all I’ve ever been,” Castiel says grimly. “But since we’ve established that you have no intention of killing either of us, why don’t we talk about why?” He stares down at the crossroads demon, not breaking eye contact. “Two days ago Azazel was going to ask us for help and now he’s telling us to back off, so I can only assume he’s figured out where Sam is.” His eyes widen with realisation.

Dean seems to be following the same train of thought as well. “Oh, I get it,” he says, and all heads turn to look at him. He’s decidedly relaxed, in spite of the knife being held to his throat. They’ve already determined that it’s an empty threat. “You think holding me hostage is going to make Sammy come out and play.” He laughs dryly. “Well, you’re bang out of luck. You can go and tell your boss that Sam doesn’t give two craps about what happens to me. Where is old Yellow-Eyes, by the way? He couldn’t make it here himself?”

“Busy,” the crossroads demon says curtly. “There are great things afoot.”

“That’s very poetic,” Dean says. “And, you know, this has been fun, but I think we both know that you’ve got absolutely zilch to hold over us, so if you don’t mind, my friend and I have work to do.” 

Dean’s hand reaches up to grab the wrist of the demon restraining him, pulling it effortlessly away from his neck and twisting it until the demon is forced to drop the blade. Almost immediately, Castiel finds himself doubled over as a searing pain seizes his stomach. It catches him so off-guard that he barely manages to remain standing at all, and he lets out a painful, hacking cough, blood spotting the ground under his mouth.

On the other side of the road, Dean goes still, and Castiel wishes he didn’t. After a pause, Dean turns, grabbing the demon who had held him and yanking his back against his chest, his palm clamped across his forehead, and Castiel lets out another cough of blood.

“Let him go,” Dean says, his teeth gritted as he looks past his hostage’s shoulder at the crossroads demon. She is still standing a few feet away from Castiel, and while it isn’t obvious which demon is causing his symptoms, she is clearly the one the others are answering to. 

“Kill him,” she says.

Dean tenses. “You think I won’t?”

“Kill him.”

A moment passes, Dean’s eyes falling on Castiel, and then the demon he is holding crumples to the ground, light pouring briefly from its eyes. 

Dean steps over the unconscious body of whoever the demon was possessing, reaching for his angel blade which promptly flies into his hand from where it was dropped on the ground. “Let him go or you’re next,” he repeats.

“And he’ll be dead before you’ve moved. Human bodies are fragile,” she says, ignoring the threat and striding past Castiel to Dean. “So this is how it’s going to work. You’re going to come with us, and when Azazel arrives, you and him are going to have a talk.”

Castiel raises his head with a grimace, a trickle of blood escaping the corner of his mouth. His vision is swimming and it’s difficult to breathe. Whatever has been done to him, he needs medical attention—or divine intervention, whichever comes first. The crossroads demon has her back to him, though, and none of the remaining three demons seem to be focusing on him. Castiel still has his own angel blade, if he can just summon the willpower to use it right now. 

Dean has apparently noticed Castiel’s line of thinking, because he does his best to keep the demons distracted. He spins his angel blade around in his hand, and it’s a nonchalant gesture but one he does to conceal his anxiety. “What are you guys even trying to prove?” he asks. “I’ve been looking for Sam just as long as Azazel has. The hell makes you think all of a sudden I’m your best shot at getting face time? I ain’t his secretary.”

“No, you’re more than that,” the demon says. “You’re his friend.” She raises her hand, making a squeezing gesture with her fist, and Castiel makes a choking noise deep in his throat. The hand that had been going for his blade stops short, and he sinks to the ground, doubled over on his knees and hacking violently. “Do we have a deal?” she asks, and if Castiel could see her face, he’s positive that her eyes would once again be red. 

“Alright, fine!” Dean blurts out, and on the ground, Castiel groans. “I’ll go with you, just stop it, fuck.” There’s desperation in his voice, his calm exterior breaking down just as he gets to the last few words. 

“Dean,” Castiel growls, dizzy from the pain, “Don’t.”

Whatever happens after that, Castiel doesn’t follow it. He’s fast reaching the point of passing out from pain and whatever internal haemorrhaging has reduced him to his current state. There must have been more of an exchange between the angel and the demon arguing over his life, but Castiel doesn’t pay attention to it. He does know that when he finally manages to faint, he’s the only one there in the middle of the crossroads. 

* * *

The bleeping of a heart monitor is a familiar sound to Castiel’s ears, and while it should be a comfort to know that he still has a heartbeat at all, it’s not something he’s come to associate with good things. While he blinks himself awake, the unpleasant medicine smell assaulting his nostrils, he’s reminded of the last time he did this, following the side-on collision with a semitrailer that had ended the first case he worked with Dean in Kansas. He’d woken then with nothing more than a minor head injury thanks to some angelic assistance, and waking up now, it occurs to him once again that he feels a hell of a lot better than he ought to. 

Castiel exhales in a long, slow breath before he opens his eyes, taking in his surroundings. No surprise, he is indeed in a hospital. It’s even a private room. The pain in his stomach is gone, although he’s starving and desperate for water. He spots a bottle of it on the table beside his bed only seconds later and he grabs for it without hesitating, fumbling with the lid and downing the entire bottle in one long guzzle. His stomach is churning uncomfortably by the time he’s finished but it’s better than being empty. 

He casts his eyes around the room as he sets down the empty bottle, taking it all in, and he sits up. He feels fine now, but if the demons had fixed him before they left with Dean then he wouldn’t have been taken to hospital. 

The thought hits him then. _Dean_. “Son of a bitch,” he says, pulling off the cord that was attached to the heart rate monitor, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and hastily standing. He’s still wearing his t-shirt and jeans, although his trench coat is missing. He spots it hanging from a hook on the door a moment later and stumbles across the room to grab it, feeling down the side for the shape of his angel blade. Not surprisingly, it’s gone. He curses, digging into one of the pockets. Fortunately, his phone is still there, but the battery is low. He checks the time; it’s four o’clock, still the same day. 

The sound of footsteps on the other side of the door alerts him just before it opens, and he steps back to get out of the way. A surprised looking nurse is on the other side, her eyes snapping to him immediately upon seeing him standing where he is. “You’re out of bed,” she says immediately, her face worried. 

“I’m feeling great,” he assures her, hoping his impatience doesn’t show through. “Listen, how did I get here? Where am I?”

She frowns at the question. “A couple that found you passed out on the road and called for an ambulance. You were suffering massive internal bleeding—we thought you’d been hit by a car but there was no sign of external trauma. Are you—”

“Fine,” Castiel assures her, grabbing his coat off the hook. “I’m sorry but I have to go. I’ll give you my credit card for the hospital expenses.”

“Sir,” she says, “I think you should at least let us check you over first. You were in critical condition.”

Castiel runs a hand down his face. He doesn’t have time for that. “You’ve done plenty,” he says. “But—”

“You don’t understand,” she says, insistent. “You might die—”

A third voice interrupts them. “It’s okay, Angela, go and see the other patients, I’ll explain it to him.”

The nurse turns her head at the same time Castiel does to see the speaker, and Castiel goes completely still, his hand tightening around the fabric of his coat.

The speaker is a very tall doctor, at least six-foot-four, with brown hair that’s long enough to touch his collar. Castiel has seen him before, in the background of a photograph taken by Jessica’s friends. 

He comes to a halt next to the nurse, offering her a patient smile. “Let me handle this,” he says, and after a brief moment she acquiesces, giving Castiel an awkward nod before excusing herself, and Castiel is left alone with the doctor. 

Sam looks him up and down once, and Castiel is taken aback by how _normal_ he looks. The way he holds himself, he doesn’t look like a demon. He has an exceptionally kind face, a warm sort of look even when he isn’t smiling. 

He definitely isn’t smiling now. He looks up and down the hallway on either side before gesturing into Castiel’s room. “We’d better go inside,” he says. 

Castiel steps back from the doorway without hesitating, and Sam follows him in, closing the door behind him although he doesn’t lock it. He remains facing the door for a long moment, Castiel staring at his back and trying to come to terms with the irony of the situation. The forces of Heaven and Hell are tearing each other apart looking for Sam, and all it took was Castiel bleeding to death in the middle of a road. Perhaps they should have just gone with melodrama after all. 

“You must be Castiel,” Sam says at last, turning to face him. 

“Sam,” Castiel says in response, nodding his head. “I’ve heard a lot about you, the…boy with the devil’s grace.”

“Is that what he’s calling me now?” Sam asks, shaking his head in what might be amusement. 

“You know who I am,” Castiel observes, realisation clicking just before Sam responds. 

“I listen to Dean’s show,” Sam says quietly. 

“Don’t tell him that,” Castiel replies grimly, feeling an overwhelming pang of sympathy for his companion. It’s one thing to think that Sam never found the show, but if he hears that he did and never tried to contact him anyway, he’s going to be upset. Castiel, for his part, is surprised and little else, but he isn’t the one who has spent the last thirty years searching. He pulls on his trench coat.

“How much do you know about what happened?” he asks abruptly, skipping past any further introductions. They don’t have time for formalities. He has to find Dean—and Sam needs to get out of Palo Alto ASAP. 

Sam senses his haste. He looks suspicious. “I killed a demon here a few days ago,” he says, making a gesture with his hands. “At first I was just going to up and go but there was a spike in demonic activity right after. I had to stay and deal with it first. Then you and Dean showed up and I had to lie low again, I figured you were in town to investigate it. I wasn’t expecting you to end up in here,” he says, inclining his head towards the door to indicate the hospital.

Castiel is silent. Sam doesn’t know what happened at the crossroads. “They were all here looking for you,” he says, his tone more accusatory than he’d meant. “Now they’ve got Dean.”

“They’ve—what?” 

Castiel rubs his face. “They have Dean,” he repeats. “I’ll explain later, but right now I need to go. Find him.”

“I’ll go with you, then,” Sam says without hesitation.

Castiel glowers at him. “No,” he says matter-of-factly. “That’s exactly what they want—it’s the whole reason they took him. You have to leave town right now.”

This might be Castiel’s only chance to get answers from Sam. If he takes off again and goes back into hiding, there is no guarantee that they’ll ever be able to find him again with or without Dean. But none of that will matter without Dean. 

Sam turns his head towards the door again, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “How are you planning on doing this?” he asks, looking back at Castiel. “You don’t have a weapon. You don’t even know where he is.”

“Why are you here, Sam?” Castiel asks irritably, ignoring the observation. He’s not going to argue with Dean’s brother, and he’s sure as hell not leading him straight to Azazel. “You’ve been moonlighting here as a doctor while Dean risks everything for you and now all of a sudden you’re interested in helping him?” The bitterness in his voice catches him by surprise. He’s _angry_. Sam knew what Dean was doing this whole time. He knew, and never once tried to find him. 

“I will find Dean,” he says firmly, without waiting for Sam to answer him. “If you want to help him then for the love of god, don’t give Azazel what he wants.”

“I don’t need your permission to rescue my brother,” Sam says flatly. “And no offence, but I know Azazel better than you do. I know what I’m doing.”

The memory of what Azazel said back in San Diego stirs in Castiel’s mind. Dean didn’t place any stock in the possibility of Sam going dark side, and Castiel hasn’t really thought about it since then. Still, he doesn’t know Sam. Dean barely even knows Sam. Castiel doesn’t know that he can trust him, least of all with something like this.

Sam is here, though, in the hospital, saving people. He saved Brady and the passengers from the truck accident and he stopped an influenza outbreak in its tracks. God knows what else he has done that they never heard about. Sam is running from Azazel, and Castiel can’t fathom a possible explanation for any of this in which Sam is bad.

He already knows why Sam has spent the last thirty years running from Dean, after what happened with Michael. This is different from that; this time, it’s Dean who is in danger.Sam waited for Castiel to wake up rather than running because he wanted to talk to him, after all. 

Castiel can hardly chastise Sam for something as simple as wanting to help Dean Winchester. There will be ways they can work together without necessarily taking Sam straight to Azazel’s doorstep. In any case, he doubts he would be able to stop him if he tried. 

* * *

It’s not clear how Sam managed to land himself a position on the hospital’s staff, especially given how much he apparently moves around, but he doesn’t seem to have a problem with leaving the ward to go with Castiel. The two don’t say much to each other as Sam leads him out. Castiel has a feeling akin to being left alone with a friend’s family the first time you visit their house. He supposes that in some convoluted way that’s what’s happening, but most friends don’t have a demon for a brother, and most demons aren’t the final key to unleashing the Apocalypse on the world. He finds that it’s best just not to talk. He and Sam have one task, and that is to rescue Dean. Once that is done, they’ll worry about everything else. 

“I don’t have my car,” Castiel says when they get outside, realising with a sinking feeling that it’s probably still parked next to the crossroads if it hasn’t been towed somewhere. Dean is going to hate that. 

“Well, do you actually know where we’re going?” Sam asks, looking at him. 

“Do you?” Castiel asks dourly. “I need to go back to the crossroads. There might be some sign of—”

“Did you say crossroads?” Sam asks. “What were you doing at a crossroads?”

“Crossing…a road,” Castiel replies, letting Sam figure it out for himself as he casts his eyes around the hospital parking lot. They’ll have to hotwire a car. Depending on where in town they are it won’t take them more than half an hour to get back there. 

“How did you end up getting attacked by demons?” Sam asks, grabbing his shoulder. Castiel turns around, brushing the hand away. 

“Seriously,” Sam says. “What happened?”

“We were going to summon a demon and use it to find you,” Castiel says. “We thought it would start making deals with the locals and attract your attention. Bring you out of hiding.”

Sam laughs dryly. “Let me guess, that was Dean’s idea?”

“It was.”

“It was a terrible idea,” Sam says. 

“I know,” Castiel agrees. “Although neither of us were banking on the demons already being there.”

“You got ambushed,” Sam observes.

“In a manner of speaking,” Castiel says. “She did still try and buy my soul. But that doesn’t matter now. We need to steal a car.”

“I’ll take us wherever we need to go,” Sam says like it’s the most obvious course of action in the world. “You got a map?”

Castiel doesn’t have a map, but he knows where they went. He isn’t keen on the idea of travelling with Sam, though, not in the way he thinks Sam is suggesting, but they can’t afford to waste time for the sake of his own personal convictions. He will set aside everything else, even the questions he wants to ask. There will be time for all of that later, if he can get Sam to stick around long enough. 

There’s no sound of wing-beats from Sam when he takes them to the crossroads, not like when Dean does his disappearing act. The trip—flight?—only takes a second from when Castiel tells Sam the location, but Castiel is unprepared for the dizzying sensation. Sam takes his hand away from his shoulder while Castiel stumbles one step away and is already casting his eyes around by the time Castiel straightens up. 

The first thing Castiel notices is that the Impala is still there. He’s surprised nobody tried to tow it when the ambulance brought him to the hospital but he’ll take whatever small victories he can get. He heads over, unlocking the door and looking inside. Most of their things, like the computers and their weapons, are still back at the motel.

He turns around, closing the car door and looking over at Sam. He’s stand in the middle of the crossroads above where Castiel buried the bag, examining his surroundings with a contemplative expression. Castiel remains standing beside the Impala for another few moments. “What do you see?” he asks. 

Sam turns his head in Castiel’s direction, as though he forgot he was there. “A whole lot of nothing,” he says. “You shouldn’t have agreed to do this.”

“With all due respect,” Castiel says slowly, “People have been dying. We needed to find you and there weren’t a lot of options.”

Sam looks stricken, but Castiel doesn’t feel bad about it. Dean has thrown away everything he has for Sam’s sake and Sam has been flitting between hospitals to avoid him for the last thirty years. Maybe Dean sees a world of good in Sam but Castiel doesn’t know him yet, and until he does, he will have to take him at face value. “You know the show was meant for you, right?” he asks him, because he finds it hard to believe that Sam could have listened to it for any amount of time and not figured that out. Dean’s pleas for his listeners to come to him for help if they ever need it, for them to call in and share their stories about the supernatural, the message should have been clear. It’s obvious that Sam has figured out that the voice on the podcast was that of his brother. 

Across from him, Sam is silent for a long moment. “I thought it might have been,” he says at last. 

“Right,” Castiel says, turning away. “Dean’s been trying to help you all this time. He doesn’t want to hand you over to the angels, you must know that. Why stay away?”

“I think we should focus on finding Dean,” Sam says stiffly, not answering the question.

“And then what?” Castiel asks. “You take off again?”

“That’s not your business,” Sam replies.

Castiel gives a dry laugh. “Dean is my friend, and he’s in this whole mess because you never bothered to show up,” he says. “So yeah, it is my business. I’m not going to let him get hurt because of you.”

And then Sam is gone, just as soon as the words have left Castiel’s mouth. He doesn’t say goodbye, or give any indication at all that he is about to leave, just vanishes, his departure completely silent, and Castiel is once again standing alone in the middle of the crossroads, the fact thathe is standing at all the only real indicator that he met Sam at all. 

He is angry. He’s a lot angrier than he expected to get when he met Sam. Dean would be mad at him for saying what he just said, but Castiel doesn’t care. Dean doesn’t see his own value. Doesn’t see the sacrifices he has made as important. Castiel was hoping that Sam would be different somehow, would hold Dean in the same esteem that Dean holds him, but so far all he has seen is contempt. He is a demon, after all; he needs to remember that. Maybe he really has changed since Dean knew him. It’s been centuries, after all. The thought is sobering. 

In any case, he knows from experience that going after him again is impossible, and he has more pressing matters to deal with. Theoretically, Dean could be anywhere in the world, but more likely than not the demons will have taken him somewhere close by. They are waiting for Sam, after all. 

The man being possessed by the demon that Dean killed might still be alive. The ambulance must have collected him at the same time it did Castiel. The demon must have known something they can use, and it was occupying his headspace. Dean erased the memories of the people in the hotel but he didn’t have time to do that here. Maybe the man will remember something. The demons were already in Palo Alto when Dean and Castiel arrived, or they got there shortly after. They must have a base of operations. 

It doesn’t take him long to drive back to the motel, but when he gets there the silence is literally deafening. Dean’s computer is still sitting on the table where he was last using it, and Castiel feels its owner’s absence strong enough to make him ache. He doesn’t know what is happening to Dean right now, but it can’t be good. They were planning on taking him from the beginning. They will have measures in place to restrain him.

It takes him a couple of minutes to determine which hospital he was taken to. He failed to find out while he was there and it wasn’t as though he left by the road. He calls it once he has, pretending to be a concerned relative and asking if they have brought in anyone recently of the man’s description. From them, he gets a name—Zach Warren—which he jots down. It’s a pretty common name, but Castiel remembers what he looked like, and he manages to track down a license photo. 

Apparently, he is a student at the university and lives in one of the dormitories. He was discharged from the hospital after he woke up, since he didn’t have any major injuries, so with any luck he will have gone back there by now. After doing some digging around to find out which dorm and room number, Castiel sets out again, his hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel while he drives.

He’s calmed down a little after spending time researching. Enough to know that he was probably a little hard on Sam before but not enough to feel bad about it. He hasn’t forgotten that the last memory Sam has of Dean involves him killing hundreds of the people Sam had saved. The brothers’ relationship didn’t end on a good note. Reasonably, with the amount of beings searching for him, Sam can’t afford to fall into a trap. He knows what’s at stake if the demons get ahold of his grace, and he’s doing everything within his power to prevent that from happening. 

But Sam is still, apparently, one of the most powerful demons in creation and has shown that he’s more than capable of taking care of himself. Would it really have killed him to just send a message?

Well, Castiel supposes he can relate. It took him five years to call Anna, not because he doesn’t love her because he’s been so damn scared of facing her. 

The comparison nags at his mind for the rest of the drive.

Castiel has never visited student accommodation before. During his brief stint at university he was studying from home, and after managing to find a parking space, it takes him a moment to figure out were to go. He has to consult a map to find Zach’s block. 

He hasn’t worn a suit, or bothered preparing a fake I.D. If Zach Warren doesn’t recognise him, he’s not going to be able to help him. 

The door to the main block is open when Castiel gets there, leading into a common room with comfy chairs around a table facing a television positioned above a sink and communal fridge. It’s almost six o’clock now. Most of the students have apparently finished their classes, because there is a group of people seated in those chairs, talking. The talking ceases the moment Castiel walks in, though, and four heads turn in his direction. 

Castiel recognises Zach in the middle of the group. He was talking animatedly before he saw Castiel but upon meeting his eyes, he freezes, and Castiel already knows that he remembers something. What he isn’t prepared for, though, is to recognise the other faces in the room. Next to Zach is the curly head of Jessica, the girl who wrote the blog entry that brought them here in the first place. On her other side is Brady, whose face Castiel remembers from another photo on the blog. The fourth person in the room is a blonde girl sitting next to Zach. Castiel doesn’t recognise her, but she’s sitting close enough to him that she might be his girlfriend. 

Jessica must have noticed Zach’s unease. She’s the first person to speak. “Hi,” she says, clearing her throat and looking between Castiel and Zach. 

Castiel had been counting on getting Zach alone to talk. With other people around, he might be less willing to open up, but the fact that it’s these people specifically changes things. Jessica is trying to figure out what happened in the bar with Sam. Brady was possessed himself only a few days ago. Perhaps Zach has already told them about it. 

“That’s him, Jess,” Zach says slowly. “The guy they were fighting over. How did you find me?” he asks defensively. 

Castiel puts his hands up in a nonthreatening gesture, his eyes moving around the circle of friends. “Please relax, I’m not a demon,” he says. “I was hoping you could help me. They’ve taken my friend.”

Zach has clearly already shared his story with the others, because nobody seems surprised by the mention of demons, albeit extremely concerned. They all exchange glances before Zach gives a nod, and Castiel enters the common room. If there’s one thing Castiel can say for sure about them, it’s that they’re desperate for answers. 

“How much do you remember about what happened?” Castiel asks, glancing at Brady for a moment before looking back at Zach. 

Zach rubs his head. “I don’t know, it’s all kind of a blur. I was camped out in my room studying last night when all of a sudden this…black smoke just came in through the window and went at my face. And then I could feel this…presence. I could see what was going on but I couldn’t control any of it.”

Last night. It probably happened shortly after Dean and Castiel rolled into town, confirming his suspicions that at least one demon followed them from San Diego. They shouldn’t have been so careless.

“You were possessed by a demon,” Castiel says, although he’s pretty sure Zach has figured that much out on his own. “Zach, my name is Castiel and I deal with these things for a living. My partner and I have been searching for a demon named Samuel and we have reason to think he’s in Palo Alto at the moment.”

“Your partner, the guy who—” Zach pauses, apprehensive. “—The guy that killed the demon?”

“Yes.” Castiel pauses. “After you were knocked out he left with the rest of the demons,” he says slowly. “They didn’t leave him any choice. They’re keeping him somewhere now, trying to lure Sam out. If there’s anything you can remember between you being possessed and arriving at the crossroads—” He stops, looking pained. “I don’t want to make you relive that, but it could save Dean’s life.”

“Wait,” Jessica interrupts, “I need to know, this demon Sam, who is he? Why’s he so important? Zach said that was the whole reason the demons attacked you.”

Castiel looks at Jessica. There’s no point bullshitting around them at this point, they already know. “We found your blog,” he says. “It’s what brought Dean and I to Stanford in the first place.”

Jessica seems surprised by this. “Wait, you know something about the guy from the club?” 

“That was Sam,” Castiel says, looking at Brady. “I think Brady was possessed for a short time as well, maybe looking for Sam, I don’t know, but when you had your altercation he smote the demon and set you free.”

“I don’t remember any of it,” Brady says flatly. “It was like I blacked out.”

“Sam erased your memories,” Castiel explains. “Most likely to protect you.”

Brady looks like he’s about to argue with that, but Jessica interrupts again. “That doesn’t seem normal,” she states. “A demon killing another demon.”

Castiel doesn’t answer immediately. This isn’t what he came here to discuss. It’s still better that these kids know as little as possible, and while he wants to quell their curiosity so they don’t go looking for more answers, he knows from experience that living with any amount of this kind of knowledge is neither fun nor easy. 

“Sam is a very unusual demon,” he says at last, turning back to Zach. The blonde girl next to him is looking over at Castiel with a hint of suspicion, but she sits back, listening intently. 

Zach seems uncomfortable with returning to the memory of what happened, but he is also understanding. “I can tell you what I remember,” he says at last. “That thing, that demon, it was _evil_. If you can go out there and stop the rest of them I might be able to sleep at night again, but I’ve got to warn you, it’s all kind of fuzzy by now.”

“That’s okay, anything you remember would be helpful,” Castiel says. He glances briefly over his shoulder, through the door, and then comes closer, sitting down in one of the common room’s empty chairs. Part of him feels awkward doing it but he doesn’t want to be standing over them while Zach talks. He isn’t trying to intimidate these kids. 

Zach clears his throat before he begins. “So, like I said, the black smoke flew at my face and then I was basically just watching myself move. I got up and left the dorm and drove to a house where I met up with a bunch of other—other demons. I don’t remember where the house was but it wasn’t far from here at all, maybe a ten minute drive.”

That’s not a huge radius, Castiel thinks. It shouldn’t be hard to find, especially if Zach is able to recognise it from the front. “Do you remember how many demons were there?”

Zach shakes his head. “No, but definitely more than what went to meet you and your friend. The house had a basement. All of the demons were meeting down there, and it was basically crowded. There was this guy talking on one end of the room, it was like a pulpit sermon, everybody was listening to him.”

Castiel’s face darkens. “This man, did he have yellow eyes?” he asks. 

Zach’s friends have all been listening intently to the recount, but when Castiel speaks they turn in his direction. Zach is silent for a moment. “Yeah, he did,” he says. “I didn’t remember everything he was saying but he might as well have been talking about the second coming. There was something about…the time is near, or whatever, but anyway, he talked for at least an hour and when he was done the crowd started breaking up. Most of the demons left after, but about a dozen stayed behind. I was one of them. They started arranging a party to go and tail you and your friend, said they knew where you were going to be, and then we left, you showed up and—well, you’d probably remember what happened next better than me.”

Zach is looking at his hands by this point, and Castiel is grateful that the demon possessing him didn’t make him kill anyone. He sits back in his seat, arms folded. “Nothing else?” he prompts apprehensively. 

Zach shakes his head. “I woke up on the way to the hospital and called Becky,” he says, indicating the girl on his right. “They checked me over but I was fine. I just…couldn’t figure out what the hell had happened. Had no idea where you were,” he says, addressing Castiel. “But Jess and Brady had been talking about that thing that happened down at the club just yesterday so I called them up. Figured they’d be the only ones who’d believe me.”

“Listen to me, Zach,” Castiel says seriously. “I don’t think I need to tell you that this is dangerous. Just stay away from the whole thing. All of you,” he adds, his eyes lingering on Jessica in particular. Brady and Zach are both sufficiently shaken as to want no further involvement in demons or monsters, and Becky seems more worried about Zach than anything else—Castiel is starting to think that the way she looks at him is more sisterly than romantic—but Jessica is clearly not satisfied. If anything, her curiosity is roused. She has listened intently to the whole recount, her eyes flitting between Zach and Castiel. It’s immediately obvious that she notices Castiel’s concerns, because she looks quickly away. “Put a line of salt along all your windows and door frames,” he says, hoping it will set their minds at ease. He doubts it will. “It’s known for it’s purity, it’ll keep the demons out.”

Zach nods, sitting back and Castiel reaches into his trench coat, feeling for a random one of his business cards. “Please call me if you remember anything more,” he says, handing Zach the card without checking his supposed occupation. Whatever it is, it can’t be too intimidating because Zach looks at it once and puts it into his pocket unfazed. 

“I’ll do that,” he says, although his tone is still laced with uncertainty. There isn’t a lot more that Castiel can do for him—he has to find Dean before Sam does—but at the very least, he has friends around who believe him. That will help. 

“Take care of yourself,” Castiel advises, getting to his feet again. “Get some rest.” God knows he has earned it. 

He gives them each a final look before he bids them farewell, and it isn’t a small part of him that is still worried a whole lot. 

* * *

It’s going to take a while to figure out which house it was that the demons gathered in, but if it is as close to campus as Zach says then it will at least be doable. More than likely, its owner is currently being used as a demon’s vessel—a quick and easy base of operations for however many demons are in Palo Alto. By the sound of things, that number is a lot. 

While he drives, his eyes drift upwards, noting the amount of storm clouds that are obscuring the stars. There is no rain yet but the sense of it is there, hard to ignore, and Castiel remembers what Dean said about demonic omens. The sky was clear as a bell when they arrived. It could be a coincidence, but he finds it’s usually best to assume it’s not. 

It’s difficult to shake the feeling of _wrongness_ in the air, and Castiel is not one to ignore his own intuition. Now that he’s thinking about it, it permeates his senses like he’s wrapped in a wet towel. Palo Alto feels like it’s home to evil. 

He wonders if this is what it was like in Kansas thirty years ago. Sam emerged, more demons came and scores of witches gathered in their wake. Azazel has been planning this for a long time; the only thing stopping it has been Sam himself. 

And it needs to stay that way. Which it won’t if Sam does go after Dean. Of course, Castiel can’t ignore the fact that going after Dean himself is basically a death wish. They only needed him alive to get to Dean, and they’ve gotten to Dean now. 

What else can he do, though? He owes Dean more than that. He will think of something. There must be something in the demon book he can use. It’s not like he plans to go in blind. 

One thing he doesn’t do, can’t afford to do, is dwell on the fact that Dean agreed to go willingly to spare his life. He was willing to become bait for his brother to make the demon release him. Castiel doesn’t know how he feels about that, and stopping to think about it for too long is a distraction he will not allow himself right now. 

He takes the long route back to the motel, scoping some of the streets around the dormitory, but none of the houses seem unusual from the streets. It’s going to take some more research to narrow them down. Tomorrow, he will go out and buy some industrial sized bags of salt, but tonight is going to be an all nighter, and he’s already tired by the time he pulls into the motel. 

There are other cars in the parking lot, but the place is quiet when Castiel arrives, for which he is grateful. He’s stayed in enough unmemorable cheap accommodation virtually identical to this one for loud music or shouting to not be a fresh experience. Castiel gets out of the car with his shoulders slumped and his face etched with exhaustion and heads inside. 

And of course, _of course_ , Sam is in there, seated at the table so much like his brother, and Castiel’s hand immediately goes to his Glock. “How did you find me?” he asks.

“You weren’t hard to find,” Sam says, and for the first time, Castiel sees that his hand resting on the table is over the long silver handle of an angel blade. He immediately tenses, removing the gun from its hiding place, but Sam is not perturbed. He removes his hand, leaving the blade on the table. “I found this in your jacket when they brought you in, took it out before anyone else saw it.” 

Castiel’s mouth tightens. Sam neglected to mention that earlier. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sam says. “Where did you get it?”

“I killed an angel,” Castiel says, not sure if he should be telling him that.

Sam sighs, but he doesn’t look surprised. “Have you made any progress in looking for Dean?” he asks, turning his head to meet Castiel’s eyes directly. 

“I told you you needed to go,” Castiel says. “I’m not going to march you into the firing line.”

“I’m not an idiot, Castiel.” Sam surprises him by lowering his arm, and another long silver blade falls into his hand. “I’m not going to just run in without a plan, that’s why I need your help.”

“Now you’re asking me for help?” Castiel asks incredulously. 

“Well, yeah.” Sam looks at him. “You want to find Dean, right?” 

“More than anything,” Castiel says, barely having to think about it. 

Sam’s eyes fall downwards for a second, and then he turns back to the table, picking up the demon book from where Castiel left it when he went out. “I was looking through this,” he says. “Where did you get it?”

“A witch had it,” Castiel says. “She was working for Azazel. We assumed he gave it to her.”

“He wouldn’t have,” Sam says dismissively. “She probably stole it. There’s a section here,” he explains, beckoning for Castiel to come over. He does so, looking down at the unreadable Enochian passage. “It’s about how to destroy demons. You get the right ingredients together you can make a kind of bomb that’ll destroy every demon within a certain radius.”

The thought seems too good to be true. “What are the ingredients?” he hazards. That kind of thing can’t be easy to make. 

“Don’t worry about the ingredients,” Sam says. “I’ve collected most of them over the last couple hours, but they are rare. There’s only enough for one, and you have to be the one to use it. I mean, obviously.”

Castiel nods his understanding. That explains why Sam came to him for help. “And you’re sure it won’t harm Dean?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Or humans—and that includes the vessels. I wouldn’t use it if I wasn’t sure.”

“Alright,” Castiel says. “So I get inside, find Dean, wait until as many demons surround me as possible and then just activate the thing?” Perhaps terrible plans are a family trait. 

“Well, we have to find where they’re keeping him first,” Sam says. 

“A house,” Castiel says. “Within ten a minute drive of Stanford University, I’m pretty sure.”

Sam frowns. “How do you know?”

“You aren’t the only one whose been digging around this evening,” Castiel says. He’ll fill him in on Zach Warren later. “I’ll find the location while you get the rest of the ingredients. Look, I need to know what you’re asking me to do here,” he says, steering conversation back to the plan. “The demons will kill me the moment I get within ten feet of the place.” Castiel does not like admitting that he is the weakest player on the board, but he is no fool. He can’t rely on strength alone for this one. He’s probably only still alive because they thought he wasn’t going to survive whatever they did at the crossroads.

“I’ll go in with you,” Sam says matter-of-factly. “Lower order demons aren’t an issue, it’s only Azazel I’ve got to worry about. You’ll sneak in while I go in the front. I’m the one they want; I doubt they’ll worry about you. They probably think you’re dead by now anyway,” he points out. 

Castiel makes an exasperated gesture with his hands. He likes this plan even less than he did the crossroads one, but with the bomb, it might actually work. If he can get Azazel to be in the blast radius when he sets it off it will be a bonus, but their priority is finding Dean and getting Sam out of there alive. If they really can convince him to give up his grace, Azazel’s threat will be diminished. 

Of course, Castiel does have serious doubts about this whole demon bomb thing at all. It’s not like he can verify it by reading the passage himself, and Dean has never mentioned it to him. Surely he would have, with something like that. He’s read the book from start to finish after all. 

Then again, Dean never told him a lot of things until recently, and the book hasn’t come up in conversation a lot since they were in Montana. 

“And if we fail?” Castiel asks him. The bomb will kill Sam if it does what it says it does. If Sam is captured and can’t get away, Castiel won’t be able to use it. 

Sam must know that, too. He’s staring down at the floor, lost in thought. “Getting Dean out comes before anything else,” he says at last, simple and curt. “You’ve got to do whatever that takes, you understand?”

Castiel doesn’t answer straight away, but he meet’s Sam’s eyes, understanding his meaning. If there is no other option, take the shot, with or without Sam there. 

He can’t do that, though. Can’t even imagine it. Killing Sam is not an option. “All three of us are getting out of there or not at all,” he says, equally straightforward. “Whatever’s going on between you and Dean, you’re going to work it out when this is over. Throwing your life away for him is not the answer, and it’s not going to be necessary.”

Sam’s expression changes, becoming defensive. “Look, I’m not suggesting I run in there like a suicide bomber,” he says stiffly. “But you care about Dean. And I do too, and I need to know that if push comes to shove you’re going to put him before me.”

It gives Castiel pause. Sam is virtually a stranger to him and Dean means the world and more. Sam knows that, too. But there is a kind of desperation in his eyes, and Castiel wants to know more. 

“Is that what you would do?” he asks at last, holding his gaze squarely. 

The question appears to take Sam off-guard. His eyebrows pull together. “Yeah, I would—”

“You’d kill me?” Castiel asks, clarifying his meaning. “To protect him?”

Sam falls silent, his eyes falling to the ground, and Castiel sees the being that defied both Heaven and Hell just to save humans. 

Castiel doesn’t wait for him to answer, or even give him time to. He just wanted to make a point. When he next speaks, though, his voice is softer. “I’m starting to think that there isn’t a lot I wouldn’t do,” he says, turning his eyes away. 

They leave it at that. 

* * *

Sam departs again a short time later, leaving Castiel’s angel blade on the table. He isn’t worried about him not coming back—surely there is no reason for him to lie to him at this point. He settles down to research instead, obtaining a map and spreading it out across the table, drawing a circle around the dormitory. He knows that the house has a basement big enough to accommodate a large number of individuals; that might come in handy later when he wants confirmation. 

He starts by looking at traffic cameras. The demon possessing Zach had needed to drive there; it stands to reason that others would as well. A large number of cars in a low-traffic area would be suspicious at the best of times. There is a camera directly across the parking lot from Zach’s dorm, and sure enough, at about ten o’clock, he sees Zach leave the building and get into his car. It’s too blurry to see any obvious sign of demonic possession, but the car pulls away, turning left towards the suburbs. Castiel draws a line along the road on his map. 

Zach didn’t take any main roads, because a run of his license plate doesn’t return any more hits, but that information means Castiel can rule out any roads with traffic lights or street cameras. By the time he’s finished, he’s narrowed his search down to only a couple of streets. 

He’s surprised when he notices that it’s past midnight. Getting into the security cameras took time; he is no Dean. And no, he isn’t going to think about that right now. Except he is, and his eyes have turned back to the bed and he’s remembering what it was like to hold Dean and kiss him and show him love, and god damn it, he is so fucking worried. 

Checking his phone, he’s surprised to see a text from Anna. She sent it just before nine, but he failed to hear it. Frowning, he opens it. 

_I found out today I’ve got a week off in May. You can stay at my house if you still wanted to come visit a for few days before July._

Castiel smiles sadly. He’ll wait until tomorrow to answer it—maybe until after he has found Dean. Yesterday he was happy at the prospect of finally visiting Anna, but right now all he feels is apprehension. There will be a time for that later. 

He gets up and stretches, opening the mini-bar and emptying its selection of overpriced chocolates. The beers are tempting as well, but alcohol is the last thing he needs. He’s just sitting down to his computer again when Sam reappears, standing just inside the door although he didn’t have to open it to let himself in. 

“I’ve got everything we need,” he says. 

Castiel sighs. “Good.” He pushes his computer to the side of the table before folding the map and putting it on the keyboard. Sam is carrying a large paper bag under his arm, and he begins placing its contents onto the table one by one like he is unloading groceries. Most of them look unremarkable; herbs and liquids in small jars and the occasional bone. The last thing Sam brings out is a large glass jar, into which he starts placing the ingredients. 

“If I’m right, you just have to smash it on the ground to make it work,” Sam says. “No incantation needed.”

“If you’re right,” Castiel repeats grimly. He’s never liked the sound of that. They can’t even test it—the first time they use it will have to be the real deal. 

Sam doesn’t appear to notice Castiel’s doubt, or he just doesn’t mention it. “You manage to find the house yet?”

Castiel closes the computer and spreads out the map again. “I’ve got it down to one neighbourhood,” he says, “But I think the only way to know for sure is to drive by ourselves. If a house is full of demons there’ll be some external signs.”

“We can do that now,” Sam says. “But in a different car. They’ll recognise yours.”

“I can hotwire us one,” Castiel says without hesitating. 

A look of disapproval crosses Sam’s face, but he doesn’t argue. If all goes according to plan they’ll be out of town this time tomorrow night. If not, motor vehicle theft charges will be the least of their concerns. “Tell me again how you found this place?”

“Dean killed one of the demons during the stand-off,” Castiel says. “The man it was possessing made it out alive. He still had some memories left from the experience.”

Sam frowns, thoughtful. “What’d he tell you, exactly?”

“The demon went to some kind of arranged meeting before it came after me and Dean,” Castiel says, wondering if he should tell Sam all of this. “There were a lot of demons there, maybe dozens of them. And Azazel was there. Apparently he was addressing them all.”

“Well, did he say what he was talking about?” Sam asks, notably tense. 

Castiel looks at him. “No, he didn’t remember that.”

Sam exhales, sounding tired, and then he pulls the jar closer to him, screwing the lid tightly shut. He holds it very carefully. It’s full now, whatever magical ingredients that Sam has collected suspended securely inside. He doesn’t hand it to Castiel. “Alright, fine,” he says. “Then we’d better go now while it’s dark.”

* * *

There’s a Honda across the parking lot from Castiel’s room not unlike the one he used getting out of Kansas with Dean. It doesn’t take Castiel a long time to get it started. Sam hangs back a few feet behind him, but he gets in the passenger seat once he hears the engine, staring straight ahead, and maybe Sam has defied the forces of Heaven and Hell but one thing he definitely hasn’t done before is steal a car. 

They remain in relative silence while Castiel turns in the direction of the university, but both of them are clearly dwelling on other things. He sneaks a sideways glance to find that Sam is staring out the windscreen, his elbow on the door, and it reminds him of Dean. 

“My sister is getting married this July,” he says, out of nowhere. 

Sam turns his head, frowning at this information. “Oh,” he says. “That’s good.”

“Hm.” Castiel wrings his hands on the steering wheel to distract himself. He knows where he’s going with this, but he doesn’t enjoy talking about his personal life, least of all with Sam. “I’ve never met the guy but she’s a good judge of character. I haven’t seen her in five years, actually.”

“That sucks,” Sam says, letting his elbow drop down from the window. He doesn’t seem disinterested, merely confused.

“Yeah.” Castiel’s eyes are fixed straight ahead, focusing on the road. The last time he saw Anna in person was at their mother’s funeral. It was not on a happy note. “And I, you know, I never really called her in that time. She doesn’t know I’m a hunter. I doubt she’d understand if she did. So she doesn’t really get why I’m away all the time, or what I’m doing. She worries about me a lot. Eventually it just got too hard to face her,” Castiel says. “So I stopped calling. It was easier that way. After a while it even stopped hurting.”

“Oh,” Sam says in a lower voice, understanding. He looks out the side window, but he’s still very obviously listening. 

“Anyway, I called her two nights ago for the first time in years,” Castiel says. “She’s getting married, she’s managing director at her job, she’s—doing really well.” He smiles a little, mostly to himself. “It was nice. It made me wonder why I put it off for so long.”

“This is different,” Sam says. 

“I know that.” Castiel looks at him, wishing he could understand what the hell is going on inside his head. “But I also think you know what I mean.”

Sam gives a sigh. “I don’t know what Dean’s told you, but I do know what he wants to ask me to do.” 

Castiel is silent for a moment. “Give up your grace?”

Sam nods. “Yeah, if that’s how he’s putting it.”

“You don’t think you should.”

“God no,” Sam says. “I’m the one who first suggested it.”

If there’s any information Castiel was not prepared for, it’s that. He blinks, a deep frown appearing on his face. “It was your idea?”

“Dean—he was Nahaliel back then—he’s the sword of Michael,” Sam says, leaning on the window again. “It’s more of a title than a literal sword. All angels are created to serve. Dean was created to serve Michael.”

“And you Lucifer,” Castiel says, noticing Sam’s knuckles tighten as he says the name. He remembers Dean’s words. _We’re not angels, we’re weapons_. “Dean told me.”

Sam shakes his head. “I figured he did. But what I mean is, he served Michael with everything he had. He was a soldier. It was his reason for existing. When—” He pauses. “When Lucifer was still around, I did too. I had my doubts but those were my orders and I followed them. Except then Lucifer was in Hell. I ended up with a whole lot of time on my hands.”

Castiel is listening, interested. “Dean said you became disillusioned with Heaven,” he says cautiously. 

“I was always pretty disillusioned with Heaven,” Sam says. “I never got Dean’s obsession with following God’s orders. I guess he didn’t have to serve the literal Devil but, you know, Dean was a really good soldier. I preferred the company of humans. I started using all that time I had to heal people down on Earth.”

Castiel already knows how this is going to end, but he’s starting to think that there is more to the story than what Dean has told him. When Sam hasn’t spoken in more than a few seconds, he cautiously says, “And Michael, he didn’t like that?”

Sam pauses. “Michael didn’t really know, not at first. It was a good century or so. I started bringing Dean with me to see all the people I helped.”

“What did he think?”

“He was kind of bemused.” Sam stares down at the floor of the car. “Thought it was nice but it was still technically against the rules. He kept telling me I should just give it up and come back before Michael found out.”

Castiel tries to picture that and can’t. Dean, the angel who carried a monster halfway across the world because he couldn’t bring himself to kill it. “What happened?” he asks slowly. 

“I just, I got tired,” Sam says. “All the angels thought I was a traitor anyway. Nobody would really miss me if I left. I decided I was going to stay. I mean, for good. I told Dean I was planning to remove my grace,” he says softly. “And then I asked him to come with me.”

Castiel is momentarily distracted when he has to turn a corner, but he listens with apprehension, knowing he won’t like where this is going. “He said no.”

“He freaked out,” Sam says, his tone flat and emotionless. “He was, I don’t know, he was scared. I guess I expected him to think I was talking crazy but I didn’t think he’d go to Michael.”

Castiel feels himself go cold. “He did what?”

There is a bitter edge to Sam’s voice. “Michael didn’t just find out, Dean told him what I was planning on doing. He never told you that?” Sam asks, turning to look at him. 

“Why would he do that?” Castiel asks, and he realises his tone is defensive. 

Sam shrugs. “Because I was breaking the rules,” he says. “And Dean was a sucker for the rules.”

Castiel’s hands clench and unclench around the steering wheel again, trying to take this information in. He remembers Dean’s guilt at his and Sam’s last meeting. It never even occurred to him that there was more to it beyond what Michael made him do to the humans Sam saved. 

He can’t believe it. Not because he thinks Sam is lying to him but because he knows Dean better than that. He would not have simply gone snitching, there must have been a reason. Dean couldn’t have known what Michael would do.

Whatever else happened, he does know that Sam still cares about Dean as well. He more than admitted that before when he told Castiel to take the shot. The brothers have history with each other and only they can deal with that. 

“Why are you telling me all of this?” he asks at last, meeting Sam’s eyes. 

There is a long while in which Sam does not answer, or give any indication that he is going to answer. When he finally does, his shoulders sag. “Dean trusts you,” he says. 

“No,” Castiel replies. “That isn’t an answer. Why are you _telling_ me? I mean nothing to you.”

Sam looks unhappy, and he sighs. “I’ve been listening to that show every day for years,” he says. “Dean is different now. He’s changed, since he met you. You’ve been good for him, and I want—when this is over, you’ve got to take care of him, because he needs it, so damn much. He needs to not be alone, and you, you need to know what he knows.”

“I hate to burst your bubble,” Castiel says, exhaling a little harder than usual while he shakes his head, “but you’re wrong.”

“I’m—”

“I only met Dean in January,” Castiel says before Sam can say anything. “The first time I heard his voice he was comforting a little boy whose father was killed by a witch. If Dean is different now than when you knew him it has nothing to do with me. It’s always been about you.”

Sam remains resolutely silent the whole time Castiel talks, and he sees him tense up again, uncertainty evident. Castiel powers on. “Listen to me, Sam,” he says, “Dean loves you with everything he is and more. It’s not my place to tell you how to feel about what happened. I’m sure you’d be justified in hating him. But if you do want somebody to take care of him, it has to be you, first and foremost. I’m not good enough.” 

Castiel watches Sam’s expression slowly change until he turns his face from view. He looks at him with no small amount of sympathy. They need to face this one thing at a time, but he would like to know what when Dean is out, he and Sam will have the chance to mend their broken relationship. 

“Maybe we’re both wrong,” Sam says. 

Castiel doesn’t get the opportunity to question him on that, because Sam suddenly stiffens, straightening up and staring intently out the window to the darkened street. “Wait, hold on, is this one of the streets?” he asks urgently.

Castiel slows the car, but not so quickly that it looks suspicious. “I think we just turned into one, why?” he asks. 

By now, Sam is twisted around in his seat, craning his head around to look at one of the houses they just passed. “It’s that one, I’m positive,” he says, gesturing back. 

“How can you tell?”

“The whole thing, it’s covered in warding,” Sam says. “The kind that weakens angels as well as keeps them out. I can feel it resonating.”

Castiel recalls the warding Dean showed him in Illinois. It weakened him to a certain extent, and the following morning he had asked Castiel to rub them off instead of him. “Do you think Dean’s inside?” he asks. It’s the only question that’s important.”

“Only reason I can think. It’s not like they’re expecting divine intervention,” Sam points out. “We’ll have to erase the warding before we can get him out. Here,” he says, grabbing a pen from the open glove compartment and taking it to his hand to draw a familiar sigil, the pentagram with a missing line. “There’ll be one of these on each cardinal point. All the other sigils are there to strengthen the effects of these ones. If you see one, get rid of it. If we can get Dean back at full power it’ll make things a lot easier.”

Castiel is the weakest link here, but he tries not to let that bother him. “Alright,” he says, pulling the car over once they’ve turned into another street. “You’ll have to do your mojo thing to take us there. They’ll hear the engine if we drive.”

Sam is momentarily silent, like he’s suddenly having second thoughts about this plan. “They’re expecting us,” he says. “We won’t have the element of surprise for long.” 

“Well,” Castiel says, taking his angel blade out of his jacket, “It’s a luxury we’ll have to do without.”

Sam’s lip twitches once, and it might be a smile. 

* * *

As promised they do not, in fact, go in guns blazing. Sam spends several minutes scoping the outside unseen before he gestures for Castiel to come closer.

There are two floors in the house, plus the basement that they know exists. That’s the most likely place they’ll be keeping Dean, so it’s where Castiel will head first. Sam, for his part, will go in through the front door, and while Castiel doesn’t like the plan, there’s no changing Sam’s mind. 

Sam pauses with apprehension when he finally hands over the bomb, placing it firmly in Castiel’s hands, and Castiel holds his gaze for a brief moment. Sam stands guard while Castiel deftly picks the lock on the back door, and then, after a short exchange of nods, he is gone, and Castiel is left standing alone.

The door opens into a living room that adjoins a kitchen, and the first thing Castiel sees is that the walls are covered with writing; strange sigils that might be Enochian with its large letters written in spray paint. Castiel looks in either direction before he enters, but the room appears deserted. It only takes a second to locate the sigil he’s looking for; it is in the middle of the wall several metres to Castiel’s right, and he heads over, pulling out his knife and etching several breaks into the lines so they’re no longer joined. 

First things first, though. He can’t see any stairs leaning downwards, which isn’t a good start, so he makes his way to the room’s adjoining door, his hand clenched tightly around the jar in his hand. 

From somewhere toward the front of the house, Castiel hears the sound of something breaking, quickly followed by rapid footsteps. There is his distraction. He really hopes that Sam knows what he’s doing. Opening the door, he peers out into an hallway before heading down, coming to an open area in the middle that leads to two flights of stairs going up and down. There’s also a door opposite them, and he checks it briefly. It’s a bedroom and it doesn’t lead anywhere. 

He turns back to the stairs, conscious of every passing second. He can no longer hear a scuffle, which is starting to make him worry, but then he hears more footsteps, this time from somewhere close by, and he ducks into the bedroom quickly, closing the door just in time to hear another one open on the other end of the corridor. 

It hasn’t escaped him that he’s just backed himself into a corner. He looks around the room once before he pulls out his blade, tucking the jar into his inner pocket although it’s bulky and he can feel its weight against his chest. It’s a last resort. He positions himself next to the door on the side of the hinge, ear close to the wall so he can listen. The footsteps are closer now, and he holds his breath when they stop outside of the bedroom door. 

Castiel’s whole body goes stiff when he hears the handle turn, and then Sam is pushing it open. He has his hands up when he enters. “Your breathing is really loud,” he says. 

Castiel relaxes, but not completely. “What happened?” he asks. 

“There are demons upstairs,” Sam says. “Other than me, I mean. Or, you know, there were.”

“Azazel?” Castiel asks. 

“Haven’t seen him. I broke one of the sigils though. Why haven’t you gone downstairs?”

“It’s only been a few minutes,” Castiel says, going past him and stepping out into the hallway again. He doesn’t put his blade away. “Is it possible that Dean isn’t here, that this house is—a decoy?” _A trap_. Well, they’ve always known this was going to be a trap, and this has been far too easy. 

Sam shakes his head, eyes falling on the stairs. “In the basement, I can feel the energy from the warding. It’s powerful, Cas. Enough to knock out an angel.”

“Find the rest of those sigils,” Castiel says, a command. “And then clear out. As soon as I see Azazel I’m dropping the bomb.”

Sam sets his jaw and nods once, and then he’s gone. 

Castiel can only hope they’re doing the right thing.

The whole process is still too easy. It’s only been minutes since they entered the house and Sam has already wiped out their resistance in spite of being the one of them most likely to be in danger. Castiel hates taking his eyes off him, but he needs to keep moving. Azazel doesn’t know they have the bomb. 

Of course, they don’t even know if it will work, but he’s avoided thinking about that up until this point and he doesn’t see why he should stop now. 

He feels a cold spot when he reaches the door to the basement, and the hunter part of him immediately thinks of ghosts, but there are no ghosts here. There is another Enochian sigil painted on the door, one he doesn’t recognise, and when he tries to scratch it off a jolt runs through his finger and he jerks it away as if burnt. Then he tries the handle.

It opens. 

The first thing he notices is that it doesn’t look too unlike any other basement Castiel has seen; the walls lined with piles of boxes and unused furniture along with a few shelves of canned food and living supplies. The second thing he notices is the black eyes of the demon that appears from out of nowhere, lunging at him. Instinctively, Castiel drives home the angel blade into the man’s stomach. 

Orange light flickers behind his eyes and skin for several horrible seconds before the demon slumps down, lifeless, and Castiel watches him fall with a nauseated feeling in his gut. It is over in a matter of seconds. 

There is no time to dwell on his anguish, though, because then he spots Dean in the centre of the room. He’s very hard to miss. 

A thin circle of flames surrounds the chair he is seated in, strapped down with bindings that Castiel realises are also covered in Enochian writing when he rushes over, stepping easily over the flames to crouch in front of Dean. He is unconscious, his head lolling forward, but he stirs when Castiel takes his face in his hands, patting it a few times. “Dean,” he says urgently. “Dean, wake up, are you alright?”

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is sluggish, but his eyes widen when they meet his. “You’re alive,” he says, sounding relieved, but it’s short-lived relief. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s a trap, I know, it doesn’t matter,” Castiel says, grabbing for one of the leather straps around Dean’s wrists and working it loose. Whatever magic has been working to keep Dean restrained is apparently not immune to simple human methods. It isn’t even locked. “We’re going to get you out of here. Where is Azazel?” 

“We?” Dean asks, his voice still lethargic as his right hand slips free. He’s looking up at Castiel with a dazed kind of expression. 

Castiel isn’t going to have that discussion with him now. “I’ll explain later,” he says, moving on to the second strap. 

“You don’t understand,” Dean says, shaking his head and using his free hand to try and push Castiel’s away. “I’m fine, you have to get out of here,” he says. 

“You’re kidding, right?” Castiel has just managed to get Dean’s other hand free. He leans down over him, wrapping his arms around Dean’s torso and hauling him to his feet. His whole body is heavy and pliant. He pulls Dean’s arm around his shoulders and puts his own around Dean’s. “Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

“No, Cas,” Dean coughs out. “It’s him, he’s coming.”

“I know,” Castiel says. “I have a weapon that can kill Azazel, I just need to—” 

“Not Azazel,” Dean says. 

A deafening whine suddenly fills the air around them, loud enough to make Castiel’s head feel like it will burst. It is all he can do not to drop Dean to cover his ears, and next to him, Dean raises his head as his face becomes illuminated with the brilliant white light that is suddenly everywhere in the room, pouring from every surface and radiating until it’s impossible to see anything but whiteness. “Douse the fire,” Dean shouts over the noise. Castiel squints painfully as he stamps at the flames, enough to create a gap in the ring, and then the two of them are stumbling towards the door, Dean leaning heavily on Castiel but moving faster in his desperation. 

Castiel can only hope that Sam has fled by now, because most of the supernatural beings Castiel has encountered so far in his life have wanted bad things for him and he doubts this one will be any different. Maybe, just maybe, he will have been able to clear away the remaining two sigils. There is only one way to find out. 

“Can you fly?” he asks, yelling. From somewhere behind them comes the sound of glass shattering, barely audible beneath the screech. 

“There’s warding,” Dean replies, stumbling when they reach the stairs. The light is impossibly brighter now. 

“Try anyway.” Castiel holds Dean tighter, stopping him from tripping. “I’ve got you.”

Dean shoots him a look that is hard to see, but whatever his doubts, he grabs onto Castiel tighter, and Castiel’s stomach lurches as the wooden stairs disappear from beneath his feet. 

It’s completely different to travelling with Sam. Castiel still isn’t aware of the space they have to pass through, but it feels as though he is being dragged painfully through it anyway. The experience only lasts a matter of seconds, but he grips Dean through all of it, worried to let him go. When they do come out the other side, they’re in their motel room, and Dean goes completely limp, sagging to the floor with a muffled noise. 

The ringing in Castiel’s ears is impossibly loud. There may even be a trickle of blood from one of them. It’s difficult to hear, and his eyes are watering, but there is no hesitation as he bends over again, gathering Dean into his arms and dragging him up onto the closest bed. Dean offers little resistance as Castiel moves him; he barely seems conscious at all, although his hand reaches up, clutching the sleeve of Castiel’s trench coat before he can move away. “Cas,” he breathes. 

“Are we safe?” Castiel asks, knowing that he needs to. “Can he follow us here?”

Dean doesn’t answer. His eyes are closed, and while the rhythm of breathing suggests that he’s not asleep he is clearly not able to do more. The effort of flying both of them in his weakened state took too much out of him.

He was able to fly, though, and since Sam was the only remaining demon in the house, it means he was successful in removing enough of the warding to let them out. Which means he might have had time to leave the house before Michael appeared. 

Before _Michael_ appeared. There is no doubt in Castiel’s mind that that is what the overwhelming light that suddenly descended upon them was, if for no reason other than the sheer amount of fear on Dean’s face when he spoke of him. 

Castiel doubts that the angel warding sigils will be enough to keep out an archangel, and drawing them here now will only serve to weaken Dean further. Instead, Castiel slides down the bed, resting his back against the side of it while he remains in a sitting position with his head only a few inches from Dean’s. He looks up at him, finally allowing himself to feel relief, and waits for whatever more is still to come. 

Nothing more comes. No deafening noise follows their brief respite, no light or broken glass, only silence save for the steady sound of their breathing. They wait together anyway, and it feels like waiting even though neither knows what for. After a while, Castiel reaches up to take Dean’s hand, and Dean squeezes his in response. 

“Who’s we?” Dean asks after a while has passed. Castiel is so tired he almost doesn’t answer. 

“What?” he replies at last, his voice louder than it needs to be so he can hear himself over the ringing in his ears. 

“You didn’t go in there alone,” Dean says. “Who—who did you come with?”

“I met Sam,” Castiel says, staring bleary-eyed in the direction of the door. 

“You what?” 

“He was at the hospital I was taken to,” Castiel tells him honestly. “Pretending to be a doctor. Just like that. It was him that healed me.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean says.

“I know.”

“Where is he now?” 

Castiel doesn’t answer, and after a moment Dean sits up, looking down at him. “Cas, where is my brother?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. “The last I knew he was going to destroy the warding in the house.”

“Michael showed up,” Dean says flatly. “Sam might still have been there—why did you bring him? You knew the whole thing was a trap for him.”

“He wanted to come. It wasn’t like I could have stopped him,” Castiel shoots back. “And we weren’t backing on your boss showing up. It would have been fine if it weren’t for that.”

Dean scoffs. “Oh, sure. The only reason you got as far as you did was because most of the demons scattered when they realised, and that’s including Azazel.”

Castiel reaches into his jacket, feeling for the bulky shape of the jar and pulling it out. He sets it on the floor in front of him, and Dean frowns. “What is that?”

“It’s a weapon,” he says. “It was written in the book; Sam made it. It’ll destroy any demons in close proximity when you set it off.”

Dean reaches down, picking up the jar and inspecting it. “Where’d he even get half this stuff?” he mutters, and Castiel looks up to see him put the jar on the table by his bed. Then his face falls into his hands, and he takes several deep breaths. 

It takes a bit of effort but Castiel gets to his feet, sitting down on the bed next to Dean and pulling him into a hug, and Dean does not resist. After a moment, he even grabs Castiel’s lapel, holding it tightly. “Jesus, Cas.”

“Why did Michael show up?” Castiel asks, because he has to ask even though the last thing he wants is to return to that subject. 

“I called him,” Dean says bleakly. “I didn’t—I didn’t think Sam would really come. It never even occurred to me that he’d come. And the demons had just left you haemorrhaging, I thought…”

“Oh.” Castiel doesn’t let Dean go, but he stares past Dean’s shoulder with an uncertain expression, reminded of what Sam told him before. Dean thought he was dead and Sam was gone, or worse, that he didn’t care about him. So he called Michael to come and get him, the Michael he hates. In spite of everything else that Dean has done for him, the sheer amount of care that he has for him only hits him right now. Dean allowed himself to be captured because of Castiel. Not Sam, Castiel. 

Dean cares about him, and Castiel wishes he didn’t. Not when this is what it’s cost him. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he says gently.

Dean shakes his head. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he says suddenly, pulling away from Castiel and heading over to the table. He’s walking normally now, although he still looks tired. “Michael didn’t follow me but he knows I can’t have gone far. He’ll be looking.”

“What about Sam?” Castiel asks, joining him. Dean is busily gathering their belongings and shoving them into his bag. At this, he falters. 

“If Michael had seen Sam, we’d know about it,” he says at last. “Trust me, Sam’s long gone. He’s probably somewhere in Europe by now.”

“I don’t think he’d leave, Dean,” Castiel says. “I really don’t.”

“Yeah?” Dean pulls the zip on his duffle closed. “You don’t know him like I do.”

Castiel grabs his own bag, picking up the demon bomb from next to the bed and tucking it inside. “I think you’re wrong,” he says. He can’t believe that, he really can’t. Not after their conversation in the car. He knows that Sam does care. The only reason Sam wouldn’t come back is if Michael already found him, but he can’t think about that right now. 

“It’s for his own good,” Dean says flatly, not addressing Castiel’s statement. He hitches up his bag, eyes darting around the room for anything they’ve left behind. “Michael’s looking for me right now, not him. I might still be able to convince him I’ve got no idea where he is.”

He turns back to the door, opening it and heading out. The sky is beginning to get brighter; a whole night has passed. Castiel follows Dean reluctantly, stopping in the doorway while Dean makes his way to the driver’s door of the Impala. “You got the keys?” Dean asks, looking at him. 

Castiel’s eyes are fixed on the other side of the parking lot. Sitting in its space, exactly where Sam and Castiel found it last night, is the Honda they took.

Dean follows his gaze to the car as well, frowning, and Castiel is already walking towards it. It looks like they can rule out Sam being found by Michael if he had time to drive the stolen car back. 

Only a relatively short amount of time has passed since they split up in the house, though, so if Sam did drive the car back he cannot have gone far since then. 

“Come back, you son of a bitch,” Castiel says loudly, turning around on the spot and looking up at the sky. “I know you’re there. You don’t get to run away again.”

“Cas,” Dean says, and Castiel spins to face him. “What are you doing?”

“Sam,” Castiel says angrily. “He was just here. He must have been.”

And then he goes still, eyes fixed just above Dean’s shoulder, and Dean’s eyes go wide before he quickly turns around, stepping backwards as he does so, and Sam is there, real and in the flesh. He stands a few feet back from Dean, eyes angled towards the ground as though he can’t meet Dean’s eyes, and for a very long moment, neither of them speak. 

“Sammy?” Dean asks, looking back at Castiel for a second as if for confirmation. He doesn’t need it, though.

Sam raises his eyes then, his expression softening. “Yeah, Dean, it’s me.”

Only a moment passes before Dean is pulling Sam into a hug, eyes fixed up at the sky, and Castiel can’t see his face but he’s sure Dean is smiling, relief and happiness mixed in with all those other emotions. Castiel is so used to seeing Dean tense and miserable that the simple state of being at ease, even for a moment, makes him light up like a beacon. 

It takes a moment for Sam to hug back, but Castiel can see _his_ face, and he looks happy, but he also looks nervous, apprehensive. When the two separate, Sam giving Dean a pat on the back, Dean clears his throat. “You look like hell, brother.”

Sam shrugs, laughing uncomfortably. “Hell will do that,” he says, glancing in Castiel’s direction. 

Dean pauses. “So you, you met Cas,” he says, like he is suddenly at a loss for words. 

“Yeah, I did.” Sam is equally uncertain, and the two are clearly skirting around the elephant in the room, but after a couple of centuries, Castiel can’t expect them to immediately be on the most familiar terms. 

“Good.” Dean clears his throat. “We were just leaving,” he says. 

“I know.” Sam looks over the Impala with a deep set frown. “Michael’s here. He won’t be happy to see me.”

“He doesn’t know you’re here,” Dean tells him. “He only came for me.”

“Are you going to talk to him?” Sam asks, and Dean stiffens.

“Nah,” he says after a moment. “That ship sailed a long time ago.”

Sam seems surprised. “He’s going to wonder where you’ve gone,” he says in a flat tone. 

“Yeah, well, I just ran out on him with a human when he was coming to haul my ass out of the fire,” Dean says. “He’ll want to know what I’ve been doing for the last thirty years and I can’t tell him so there isn't much point in trying to talk him around. Easier to just run like hell.”

“I know the feeling,” Sam says. 

Dean looks at the ground, and then back up at his brother. “Why are you here, Sam?” he asks slowly. 

Sam cannot meet his eye. His head is turned sideways, looking anywhere but at Dean. “I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says. 

Dean laughs, but it’s more of a vocal exhale than a laugh. “Well I’m good, actually, thanks for asking,” he says, and it may or may not be ironic. Castiel doesn’t think it is. “Are you okay?” he adds, in all seriousness. His tone is slightly darker. “I mean I kind of…wasn’t really kidding about the looking like Hell thing.”

“No, I know,” Sam says. “I’m fine, really. It isn’t so bad. I can still do everything you can. Heal people.”

“Yeah, I heard about that,” Dean says, glancing at Castiel for a second. “I mean, look at you, you got your dream job after all,” he says. “That’s good. Good for you.”

It’s at this point that Castiel finally finds it in himself to step in, knowing that this conversation is going nowhere. They need to have it in private, and when the threat of a confused and soon to be very angry archangel has at least temporarily subsided. “You should come with us, Sam,” he says. Sam would not have made his presence known if he only wanted to check on Dean. Castiel can only hope that means he was planning on joining them at least for a little while. He owes it to Dean to at least hear him out, and the threat of Azazel and Michael has not gone away, nor will it by simply continuing to run. Sam must know that his grace, tainted though it is, is still a time bomb that both Heaven and Hell want to acquire. 

They have to address all of this and more, but Sam is still having trouble meeting their eyes. He runs a hand down his face. “Yeah,” he says at last. “We can talk about this later.” He does not specify what ‘this’ is, but Dean gets it anyway, although he doesn’t look like he’s looking forward to it. 

Dean purses his lips, clearly not satisfied and every bit as apprehensive as Sam, but he’s also very keen to get out of Palo Alto, so he shoots a look towards Castiel, and Castiel tosses him the keys to the Impala. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I...really wasn't kidding about the Olympics thing, apparently.
> 
> I've had some stuff going on, but I hope another of these longass chapters can make up for it. Seriously, I am absolutely blown away that any of you guys are reading this. I am so, so, grateful and thank you all so much for your patience, it means the world to me that even one person can enjoy my stuff. I wish I could better express how much I love everyone who has supported me on this endeavour but I am having trouble because I am a potato.
> 
> So, Sam is finally an item! Woot! Here's hoping I can get another chapter out before I turn 50. We'll see. But for now, I hope you had fun reading this part. 
> 
> If you want, you can find me on tumblr at ben-wisehart.tumblr.com if you want to say hi! And please feel free to leave a comment on this work. But most importantly, just thank you so much for getting this far with me. I can't believe it's been nearly three years! and I've only posted six chapters! Onward, 2016!


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